She Started It
by lareepqg
Summary: It was Jane's fault, no matter how you looked at it. Every vexing, troublesome, uncomfortable situation in his life had a single common denominator, as far as Gunther could tell; she, without question, started it. A collection of Jane and Gunther drabbles and one-shots which will eventually form a larger story. NOT related to our story game in any way-just me practicing my fluff.
1. Meetings

_A/N: Well, I am going to practice my fluff, if you don't mind. It's not my forte._

 _This fiction should be a series of chapters which can be read as drabbles or one-shots, which can (hopefully) be put together to create a larger story. It is in NO WAY related to the story game. This is just me messing around, trying to improve the fluffs. My plan is to update this (at least) weekly._

* * *

"Adeline! _Adeline!"_

His momma's hand tugged on his as she stood on her tiptoes to wave above the crowd of the market. "Over here dear! Woohoo!"

Having gained the attention of her quarry, she picked up her basket and pulled them through the sea of legs. It was busy today, and not having been to market all winter, Gunther felt very small, indeed. After several near-collisions and one almost-tumble (his fall only arrested by the comforting grip of his momma's warm fingers wrapped around his), they made it to where her friend was waiting by the apple cart.

"Adeline! How lovely to see you! It has been so long!" Momma dropped his hand and basket to give the woman a hug. Gunther looked up at the lady. She was taller than his momma and thin, her hair pulled back severely, with a stern-looking face. She did not _look_ very nice, but she was smiling at Momma and cooing her hellos with the love of a long friendship.

"Oh, how I have missed you! Are you feeling better, dear?" She asked, once they parted. She stepped back but did not release his momma's hands. Concern pinched her brow. "The castle is not the same without your daily presence. I dare say it was a _very_ dull winter without your laughter to brighten up the place."

Momma smiled brightly. "I am feeling better, thank you. Though I do find myself still tired. I missed my duties at the castle, but not as much as your mischief!"

The lady laughed heartily. It was a funny laugh. Like his Pappa's and not at _all_ like his momma's gentle laughter. It bellowed frighteningly and was much too loud for a lady, ending with a snort. "I do _not_ get into mischief." Momma laughed at this while her friend grinned. "Ok, perhaps I make mischief, but not so much without my favorite cohort!"

Gunther tugged on his shirt, kicking his foot in the dust while they talked. He fished out an errant booger and wiped it on his momma's skirt. It was nice to see Momma laugh but this was _boring._ Couldn't they go back to the stall with the goats and piglets? He liked chasing the piglets.

Catching his movement, the lady released his momma's hands, leaned over, and favored him with a smile. She was pretty, even if her hair was pulled back like his granny's. "And how do you do today, Gunther? Have you been good for your mother?"

Gunther shied away, pressing his face into Momma's skirt. The lady laughed.

"It is alright, dear." Looking back at Momma, she said. "He has grown so much!"

"And where is your little Jane, Adeline?"

"Well, she is right here!" The lady seemed surprised, then looked behind herself. When she didn't see who she was looking for, she spun around, the fabric of her dress flaring out around her legs.

Gunther saw a quick flash of a pair of shoes and two wide green eyes peering up from _inside_ the lady's skirts. He giggled.

Having located the girl, _Jane,_ the lady put her hands on her hips. "Oh goodness, she can be so shy sometimes." Stepping carefully, she extracted the small girl from between her legs. Sparse orange tufts of hair stuck out from odd angles. There wasn't much of it, but little there was was curly, framing her pink cheeks. Clutched between her chubby fingers was a small leather ball.

His momma squatted down beside him, putting an arm around his waist. "Gunther you remember Jane, don't you? You played with her at the castle." She looked up at the lady, laughing. "Still no hair? How you must lament not being able to bedeck her in ribbons!" She winked at the little girl. "Though I must say she's adorable with out them. A true beauty with her flawless pale complexion and high cheekbones! How proud you must be."

The girl, _Jane,_ took an unsure step towards him. Then, with a toothy smile that scrunched up her nose, she held out the ball. "My ball!"

Unsure, Gunther took the ball from her.

She put her hands awkwardly info front of her, palms up. "Tow it!"

At his momma's urging, Gunther tossed the ball to the waiting Jane. It went right through her arms and rolled away. Scrunching up his nose in annoyance, Gunther retrieved the ball and handed it back to the giggling Jane.

The tall lady beamed at him. "Adorable! What a gentleman your Gunther is! And so handsome!"

Gunther's chest puffed up at the praise, _of course_ he was handsome. His momma told him so every day.

"We were just going to go back to the castle for lunch," said the lady, "but it is such a fine day, perhaps a picnic is in order? We could let the children play and catch up on all the good gossip?" The lady waggled her eyebrows. "I know how much you like gossip…"

Momma laughed behind her hand. "I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about, but that sounds like a wonderful idea, nonetheless." She placed her hand on his head, smoothing his hair back from his face. Gunther looked up to her shining smile. "Would you like to play with little Jane, Gunther?"

Gunther looked at the giggling girl. She _seemed_ nice enough. Not like his hair-pulling cousins. Jane noticed his interest and threw her ball with one stiff, pink arm. It landed short, rolling listlessly in the dirt to stop at his feet. "Yes, Momma."

"Wonderful!" She graced his upturned cheek with a kiss, then turned to the apple vendor. Gunther heard the *clink* of coins as purchased a few apples from the cart. "Come along, then." She took her friend's arm and slowly started making their way out of the market.

One fist in her mother's skirts, Jane toddled after them, watching him as they walked away. When Gunther didn't immediately follow, she released the fabric, and ran back to where he stood.

"C'mon!" Grabbing his hand with her pudgy fist, she pulled him forward until they were caught up.

* * *

Later, after a long afternoon of play, Gunther laid his head on his momma's shoulder while she carried him home.

"Did you have fun today, dear?"

"Mmhmmm," Gunther rubbed his eyes with a fist. He pushed himself up to look at her face, kicking his legs. "We played lots of games!"

Momma grunted at his sudden movement. "Oof! You are almost too big to carry!" She wrapped one hand around his swinging legs, stilling them. Then she shifted him onto his back, cradling him to her breast in a hug as though he were still a little baby.

He was _not_ a baby, and might have said so, but she interrupted his pout by dripping a line of wet, smacking kisses all over his face and neck, making him giggle and squirm.

"What did you play?" she asked, righting him again.

"We played ball, and tag, and hide and seek, and even played knights!"

"Knights?" her voice was love and laughter. "How fun! Did You play nicely with little Jane?"

"Yes," he whispered, his next words a secret, "She is not so bad...for a girl."

His momma laughed. "Well, _I_ am a girl too, you know."

Gunther's eyes went wide. " _Really?_ "

"Yes, Gunther. Really." She sounded serious, but then she tickled his side. "You had a good day though? I know this winter was rather boring without anyone to play with."

"Yup! Jane got two sticks for swords and we chased off bandits!" Gunther swung his arm in demonstration, smiling widely at the memory. The bandits had been dragonflies, but the two pretend knights had made short work of their enemies, chasing them away from their small luncheon.

She placed another kiss on his cheek."How fun!"

It _had_ been fun, but he was tired now, so he laid his head back down on his momma's. Gunther rubbed his face into the golden mass of her hair. He breathed in her familiar scent, lavender and soap, comfort and love. Exhaustion washed over him as he yawned. Gunther was suddenly very, _very_ sleepy.

"Are you going to be a knight when you grow up?" She rubbed his back with her free hand.

"Or a merchant like your Pappa?"

Snuggling in deeper, Gunther mumbled his answer into her shoulder.

She hummed a pleasant assent, continuing their way home. Bundled in his mother's warm embrace and exhausted from a day of happy play, Gunther fell deeply asleep.


	2. Cousins

It had been a while since Gunther had been to the castle. He'd forgotten how _busy_ everyone seemed.

They paused in the courtyard for a moment, his mother dropping his hand so she could use the sleeve of her dress to wipe the sweat from her brow. It wasn't hot, but the walk to the castle had seemed rather far. Gunther stood pressed against her leg, watching the knights and squires practice, while his momma caught her breath.

Large hairy men moved busily around the yard. Every last one of them was twice the size of his Poppa, and maybe half again as tall.

 _Were they ALL giants?_

The men seemed very busy, indeed. Two bearded men led monstrous horses in and out of the stables. Gunther could barely see the tops of the tall beasts, and shied away when their feathered hooves clopped past. Other men, somehow even wider in their cloaks and leather armor, practically _leapt_ on top of the war horses before riding away. In the middle of the courtyard, several knights practiced with their swords, the blades clanging like thunder with each strike.

It was very noisy. Gunther was glad no one noticed him.

Finally Momma captured his hand and led him around the edge of courtyard. They passed the blacksmith where two men were pounding away on anvils with great hammers. Sparks flew everywhere. Onto their aprons, the ground, against a half barrel of water. The sparks hopped and danced before vanishing. Gunther hadn't realized he'd stopped to stare until his mother tugged on his hand.

Just before the entrance to the gardens, his momma paused in front of an old man. He sat on a bench, balancing a bouncing Jane on his knee. She leaned and swayed against his calloused hands, giggling and screeching _Giddyup!_ with glee. The man's gray gray hair was long, and stuck out at all angles, but his beard was neatly trimmed, partially hiding a large scar which ran from above one eye, down his neck.

"My dear!" He greeted her with a warm smile. It pulled his scar tight, making him less scary. "It has been far too long."

"How are you doing, Sir John? You seem quite busy." Momma gestured to the bouncing Jane. "Little Jane is quite the handful."

"Indeed! She brings me great joy, but I do miss training with the other knights. My heart, you know." He looked sad for a moment. "But enough about me, what brings you to us today?"

Momma leaned down to kiss his scarred cheek. "You, of course. I could feel the pull of your allure from town, Sir John."

The man threw back his head and he let out a hearty laugh. "Still a terrible flirt! Do not let Adeline hear you say such things, lest she be scandalized."

"Hardly," replied Momma, "though I am looking for her. Do you know where she might be?"

Jane launched herself forwards, nearly topping off the old man's knee. He caught her just before she fell face-first in the dirt. "I do believe she is up at the castle, preparing for the new queen." He pulled Jane into a hug and kissed her head. Jane giggled and wiggled free. "Full of energy, that one."

"I can take her up to the castle if you like, Gunther can help keep her busy while I visit Adeline."

"Are you sure?"

Momma picked up Jane, balancing her on one hip. "Of course. She is a delight."

The man leaned over, picking up a small wooden sword from underneath the bench. It was hardly more than a stick with a handle, but Jane squealed with delight. "Here you are, my sweet!"

"Thank you, Peepaw!" Jane looked down at Gunther. "My a knight!"

Gunther frowned. "You cannot be a knight, Jane. You are a _girl._ "

At this Sir John let out a booming laugh, startling him. "Little Jane is certainly _fierce_ enough for knighthood." He leaned forward, bringing his face close to Gunther's. "Have you never seen one of her tantrums?"

Gunther shook his head, _no._

With mock seriousness the old man whispered, "Pray you never do, boy." Then he leaned back, hands on his stomach, and laughed heartily.

* * *

Momma called out to Cookie, who leaned out his window, waving his spoon in greeting.

"How are you, cousin?"

"I am quite well, thank you. Is Adeline still up at the castle? I have brought Jane from Sir John."

A pack of rowdy boys ran screaming past. They looked more like wild wolves than children. Gunther ducked behind his mother's skirts. He knew those wolves. He did _not_ want his hair pulled today.

"She was just down here, but I think she is back up at the castle proper. If you'd like, you can leave Jane and Gunther here with the children. I can see them well enough from the window, and I shall be setting out lunch shortly, if they are hungry."

"You take on too much, Cookie. When will you be getting some help? Perhaps one of the boys?"

Cookie rolled his eyes. "No, that would end in disaster for sure. I will have a devil of a time apprenticing those hooligans out." Cookie watched as the group barrelled back through the courtyard, rolling what was likely a stolen pumpkin. "Though I am not in need just yet. When the queen arrives, I will bring it up with Sir Theodore."

"Perhaps one of your sister's girls? Petunia certainly has enough mouths to feed."

"Now there is an idea." Cookie disappeared for a moment and reappeared with two carrots. "Here, give them these. I will be out soon." Cookie handed his mother the vegetables, who then passed them on to Gunther and Jane.

Momma sat Jane at the table, who was happily chewing away. "Sit here and be good for Cookie, Gunther." She placed a quick kiss to his head, and gave Jane a squeeze. "You too, Jane. I will be back shortly with your mother." With a final wave to the cook, she lifted her skirts and was off.

Clearly his cousins had been lying in wait, biding their time until the adults were busy, because as soon as his momma disappeared from sight, Hugh, Dougall, and Louis surrounded him, badgering him with their taunts and jibes.

"Be good for Cookie, _baby."_ said Hugh.

"Gunther's hair is so long he looks like a _girl._ " teased Dougall.

"Maybe his is a _girl._ " suggested Hugh.

"Maybe he is a girl _baby._ " said Dougall.

"Yeeeeah," agreed Louis.

Louis was not the most creative of his cousins.

Gunther knew it was best not respond. Past experience had taught him their _play_ could quickly degrade into rough housing...which in general, did not end well for him. Not wanting to get pummeled, Gunther turned away, intending to climb up onto the bench.

Hugh did not like being ignored. "Hey, we was talking to you!" He stomped over grabbed a fistful of Gunther's shirt. "We just wanna play."

"Momma told me to sit here." Gunther felt very small surrounded as he was by his larger cousins.

Dougall laughed, "Do you do everything your _momma_ says?" Dougall tugged on a lock of Gunther's hair.

Gunther hesitated. "Yes?" _Didn't everyone?_ Gunther went to take a bite of his carrot, only to have it snatched away by a smirking Louis. "Give it back!" he cried.

Louis took a bite and tossed the carrot to Hugh who, in turn, took a bite and tossed it to Dougall. "Come and get it... _baby._ "

Gunther _tried_ , running back and forth between them, but the boys were much bigger and faster. Soon there would be no carrot left! Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Gunther was _hungry._ He could not cry, though. Would not. Doing so would make his cousins tease him even _more_.

Without warning the much-diminished carrot was snatched out of the air, caught by one pudgy fist. Little Jane, her face screwed up in determination, and handed it to Gunther.

"Hey!" said Louis, kicking at the dirt.

Jane stomped right up to Hugh. "You mean!" She wagged a finger under his nose.

Unimpressed, Hugh shoved her hard, knocking her into the dirt. "And you are just a _girl._ "

Gunther thought _for sure_ Jane would start to cry -Hugh _loved_ to make kids cry- but instead she stood up, pulled her wooden sword from her sash, and pointed it at Hugh. "Say sorry."

All three of his cousins laughed.

"No. Baby."

Without warning Jane rushed at Hugh, beating him about the shoulders and face with her little sword. "SAY SORRY!"

Surprised, Hugh wasn't able to do much more than raise his arms against her wild attacks. It left his stomach unguarded.

Jane stepped forward and poked himin the middle, over and over. "Say sorry! Say sorry! Say sorry!"

Hugh fell down, crying. Both Dougall and Louis tried to come to their brother's aid; Louis went to help up his fallen brother while Dougall and made a grab for Jane's arm. Jane whirled around and bit down on his hand, _hard_ , making him scream like a...well...girl.

Having been the recipient of one of such bites, Gunther almost had sympathy.

Almost.

Dougall tried to pull away, to wrench his hand free of her small mouth, but Jane bit down even harder, still chanting a muffled, "Say sorry!".

Crying now, Dougall screamed a breathy, "SORRY!"

Jane let him go and he fell backwards onto his brothers, toppling them over. The three lay in the dirt, a frightened, surprised pile of defeated bullies.

Jane took a threatening step forward.

"Sorry, Gunther!" said Hugh.

"Sorry!" cried Dougall.

"I am telling!" whined Louis.

Scrabbling for purchase, the three boys turned tail and ran.

Gunther didn't blame them.

Jane turned around to face Gunther. She stuck out her tongue and scrubbed it with one open palm. "Tastes bad." She made a little gagging sound. "Yuck." Then, smiling as suddenly as she had turned feral, she walked over and handed him her sword. "For you. Peepaw make my new one."

Unsure, Gunther took it from her outstretched hand. "Thank you?"

Jane climbed back up on the bench. "Welcome." As if nothing had happened at all, she took a bite of her carrot. "My like carrots."

After a moment Gunther stuck the sword in his belt and joined her. "Me too."


	3. Hair and Feathers

Gunther was supposed to be watching Jane.

Not that he _wasn't._ Watching her, that is. But he suspected perhaps the instruction had implied some sort of supervision or control...which, Gunther was happy to report, he had none of.

Gunther took a handful of mud, smooshed it between his fingers, then wiped it on his cheeks.

He looked over to where Jane was playing happily, smearing mud all over herself- Jane had already covered her entire face, so he scooped up another fistful, eager to catch up.

* * *

In deference to the morning rain, Gunther had spent the day inside, playing on the floor with his toys. He was in the midst of a great battle -his wooden soldiers were pitted against an invading horde of spools of thread- when a rap sounded at the door.

His mother laid on her settee, a cloth over her flushed face. "Gunther, dear, could you see who is at the door?"

"Yes, mother." Gunther stood and walked over to door, standing on his tiptoes to release the latch.

Outside stood the Lady Adeline. One bony hand was clasped around the arm of an excited Jane. "Is your mother home, Gunther?" She looked worriedly over his head.

"Yes. Momma is in the sitting room." Gunther looked at Jane, who had begun bouncing in place. Lady Adeline gave Jane a cross look. Gunther thought she didn't want noisy, boisterous Jane bothering his mother. Momma _loved_ Jane, but she got into everything.

 _Everything._

"Would you mind playing outside with Jane while I visit your mother? She is... full of energy this morning."

Gunther could see.

Little Jane had forgone bouncing and was now hopping in place. Up, down, up, down. Her hair, having finally grown in, had escaped its ribbons -though knowing Jane, she had likely helped the process along. The untamed curls bounced up and down with each dramatic leap into the air.

"Yes, of course, Ma'am."

With a sigh of relief, Lady Adeline handed the excited Jane off to Gunther. Her fingers were sweaty as they closed around his own.

"Do you want to play tag in the garden?" He asked.

"YES!" Came her excited reply. Dropping his hand, she took off at a dead run.

Happy to be outside, Gunther followed.

He had just come around the corner of their small house when he saw Jane run straight into a large puddle. The morning's rain had turned their normal play area into a soggy mess and Jane, being Jane, had headed right for it. Gunther opened his mouth to call her back when her foot skidded on a slippery bit of hidden grass and she went flying, landing with a giant _splat!_ on her back.

Gunther ran over to see if she was hurt, stopping short at the edge of the puddle. He did _not_ like soggy boots.

Expecting tears he asked, "Jane? Are you hurt?" but of course she was not.

The surprise of her fall worn off, Jane giggled and then kicked her feet in the muddy water. She stood up then stomped around in a circle. Water splashed everywhere...some landing on boots and pants. "Play wit me!"

Gunther shook his head. "No. I do not want to get in trouble."

Jane jumped up and splashed both feet into the water. It made a _most_ impressive wave…

He was fairly certain he could do better.

Gunther looked at Jane. Looked at the puddle. Looked at the house, then back at the smiling Jane.

"Guuuunther," she whined, "play wit me!" She ran up to him and tapped him on the arm, yelled "It!", then ran a few steps. The back of her hair was sodden and filled with clumps of mud.

Gunther wasn't sure.

Jane splashed up and smacked his arm again. "Gunther, you are _it._ "

With another quick glance at the house, he turned back to Jane, his mind made up. Gunther raised his hands, curling them into claws, and using his scariest voice, _roared._

Jane let out a false screech and ran away. Gunther chased after her, unable to keep up. Despite her shorter legs Jane was _fast_ and the mud made running difficult. Up and down the steps, around the low-cut shrubs, through the empty flower beds, splashing back through the puddles. Eventually he caught her; or rather, she allowed herself to be caught.

Jane liked being _it_.

Back and forth they played, taking turns being a bear, a wolf, a hawk. Jane even had a passable impression of a warthog, rooting around in the muddy water on her hands and knees. It wasn't long before they were both filthy, wet, and tired of running around, so they took a break from their game to play in the puddles. Gunther built a mud castle while Jane formed rough circular lumps in a line, declaring they were mountains.

Gunther put the finishing touches on his castle, a stick in each corner for the flags, and looked at his hands. They were really dirty- the black/brown mud a stark contrast to the pale skin of his arms. Gunther took a handful of mud and smeared it up his arms.

Then his legs.

His face.

Jane watched with fascination, eventually grabbing a handful of mud and smearing it on her own freckled cheeks and neck.

Gunther couldn't reach his back so he laid down in the churned up muck, rolling around and around. Jane followed suit, using big handfuls of gritty dirt to smear back her hair, declaring they were mud monsters. Standing up she raised her little arms and face to the sky, and with a scream bordering on feral, stomped her mud mountains flat.

* * *

By the time Jane's mother came to check on them, they were really, really, _really_ dirty.

Really. Dirty.

Hair, eyes, mouths, noses. Arms, legs, necks. Jane had used the sticky stuff to fill Gunther's hair with feathers, leaves, and sticks. He was fairly certain there was even mud down in the toes of his boots.

They were so muddy they could hardly be called children anymore.

Lady Adeline, having come around the corner to find the source of their laughter, shrieked at the sight of them covered head to toe, sitting in several inches of soupy water.

His mother followed close behind. After seeing the source of her friend's scream, she burst into laughter

Cheeks red with anger, the Lady Adeline raised her skirts and stomped over to where Gunther sat. Lady Adeline grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet, scolding him for making such a mess.

Gunther was so surprised, he didn't react as she stopped to wag an angry finger in his face.

"How could you, Jane? You just had your bath this _morning!_ And now you are...oh it is going to take me _forever_ to get all of that out of your hair!" She started back towards the house, dragging him behind her. "Now I am going to have to wash your clothes for the second time this _week_ and beg Cookie for _yet another_ tub of water!"

They were halfway across the yard before his mother recovered herself enough to speak. "Adeline- oh, Adeline," she burst into another round of belly-laughs, "Adel- oh Addy, _stop._ "

Lady Adeline stopped to look at her friend. "What, dear?" She released her skirts to throw up her hand in exasperation. "She is _filthy!_ "

His mother was gasping between her fits of laughter. "Adeline, _she_ is really _he."_ She wiped the tears that were rolling down her face. "I could be wrong, but I do believe that is Gunther." She walked over to scrub some of the offending mud from his cheek. "See? Grey eyes."

Jane's mother bent down and studied him closely.

Realizing she had _in fact_ grabbed the wrong child, Adeline huffed in frustration. She let him go and stomped back over to Jane, who was still happily splashing in the puddle. The lady called to her daughter, trying to coax her out, but Jane would have none of it -even going so far as to turn her back and continue splashing in a rather obvious defiance to her mother's commands.

In the end, after the lady's pleading had dissolved into frustrated giggles, Gunther had needed to retrieve Jane, securing her cooperation with the promise of a snack and warm bath.

They both had ended up scrubbed pink, Jane wearing one of Gunther's old shirts, playing in front of a large fire while their mothers shared tea. Jane was fascinated by the battle Gunther had set up before her arrival, although -Jane being Jane- his carefully laid out formations had not lasted long after they'd attracted her attention. There was no salvaging the epic battle which had been unfolding, so instead they'd rolled the spools around some and Jane had repeatedly lined up and knocked down the soldiers.

One in particular seemed to be her favorite. She'd named it Sir John and kept it clutched in her chubby fist. Gunther thought perhaps it reminded her of her grandfather, so he made a gift of it.

Eventually they pushed the toys off to one side, their bellies full and their eyes heavy. They crept closer to the fire and stretched out on the simple rug, feeling tired after their busy day. The warmth of the fire and the warmth of Jane at his back, combined with the soft voices of their mothers slowly lulled him to sleep. He was almost there, his thoughts slipping into dreams when he was jarred back awake.

Jane's small foot kicking hard into the small of his back.

 _Ouch._

He rolled over, blinking blearily at her sprawled out form. Annoyed and missing the drowsy heat she had been putting off, he readjusted the two nearest limbs, curled himself around her, sighed, and drifted away.

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks to Kyra for keeping me on task for these. Fluff is not my natural state._


	4. So Very Loved

They couldn't afford a funeral at the church.

The rain had been relentless, coming down steadily for the last few days, and had turned the town's graveyard into a quagmire. Without any better option, his father had laid Gunther's mother out in their small parlor.

His father had cried at first, his thin frame draped across her lifeless form, apologizing between sobs for not being able to afford the best healers or even a pretty new dress to bury her in. Weeping for forgiveness because he didn't have the coin for her to be blessed by bishop himself.

Gunther had wanted to go to his father, to comfort him, but...but he didn't know how.

He barely knew the man.

So Gunther sat in the corner, forgotten. Keeping silent vigil with dry eyes. Occasionally he would be noticed by a passing mourner. A stranger who would awkwardly touch his shoulder or tell him he would be fine. God had taken his mother home, gathered her to Him, brought her to a better place.

He didn't really understand.

How could the words be true? She was right there, on their table.

Gunther's father had stopped crying a while ago, apparently having spent the last of the day's tears. He had been pulled into the kitchen by a business associate and shoved into a chair underneath the shuttered window. They were talking in hushed tones, droning on and on, completely oblivious to Gunther's presence, getting slowly, steadily drunk in the murky light.

Gunther wanted to cry, should be crying. That is what happened when you were sad, right? You cried. But he either could not, or would not produce any tears. He couldn't help feeling vaguely, wordlessly guilty for _not_ crying. Wasn't he sad? Of course he was...but this -his mother lifeless in their small house- it was almost beyond his understanding.

He had an idea that his momma would probably be crying if he were the one that was lying on the table to never get up again.

But...for all of that, the tears wouldn't come.

She was...gone.

She was right there.

Gunther didn't understand.

He _should_ be sad and weep. He _wanted_ to be mad and scream. He wanted to shriek and shout and beat his hands and feet against the floor in fury until someone, _anyone,_ made her get up. Made her open her eyes and smile and tell him that everything was going to be alright again.

But really, Gunther couldn't summon either feeling. Instead he just felt….numb. Tired.

Alone.

Isolated in a room filled with people; adults coming and going, none of whom took any real notice of him sitting quietly.

Their voices washed over him. Soft, muffled. Snatches of whispered conversation, the repetitive lilting sounds of prayers, the droning murmur of the men in the kitchen. Exhausted, Gunther felt his eyes grow heavy. Leaning his head against the wall, he let himself be lulled to sleep.

He woke up to a small, cool hand pressing into his own. He blinked blearily, trying to clear the grit out of his eyes enough to focus on the newcomer. Jane. She had arrived with her parents, and seeing him in the corner, crawled up beside him and pulled his hand into her lap. She wrapped both of her small hands around his own, and leaned into his shoulder. Her fingers were cool and dry from the autumn air but her presence was warm and comforting.

Awake now, Gunther rubbed his eyes with his free hand, and looked around.

Kneeling on the ground in front of them was Jane's mother. Her hands were clasped in prayer, her eyes closed, tears rolling down her upturned face. Every now and then a hiccuping sob would interrupt her prayer and she'd have to start over, swallowing thickly as she asked God to look after her friend.

After she finished, Jane's mother began again -this time praying for Gunther- asking God to mind him, to look down on him in His tender mercy, to gather him into His loving arms.

Gunther sat up, listening hard to her words.

Why would she do that? Pray for him? He was not the one who was dead, his mother was.

Is.

Gunther had spent the better part of the morning watching people pray over his mother's body; the few that _had_ noticed him had filled his head with confusing platitudes. She had been taken. She had been gentle and good. Too gentle to remain. She had been welcomed home. Embraced. A mish-mash of words which -to his young mind- amounted to one frightening reality: God had turned his baleful eye to his mother and for reasons unknown, removed Gunther's whole world.

Gunther suddenly felt afraid.

Gunther didn't _want_ God to notice him.

Was Gunther dying too? Was that why Jane's mother prayed for his soul? Maybe he was already dead? Was that why he couldn't cry? Did the dead even have tears?

As much as he missed his mother, he didn't want to _die_.

His chest felt tight, his throat swollen. Suddenly he couldn't draw in enough air and the first sob surprised him. He hadn't even felt it building, it was just _there -_ then the tears began in great messy, uncontrollable waves as finally, _finally_ Gunther cried.

Seeing his distress, Jane released his hand and threw her arms around his neck, practically crawling into his lap in an attempt to wind around him. She smelled like porridge and flowers, dirt and Jane. She patted his back awkwardly, rocking him back and forth with the weight of her body, murmuring reassuring nonsense into his shoulder. An odd echo of her own mother's comfort in the rare times she needed such things.

She was all elbows and bony limbs, but she was warm and comforting and Gunther wrapped his own arms around her and let himself cry.

After a moment he felt two spindly arms scoop them both up. Jane's mother, having moved from her position on the floor, gathered them both into her lap, clasping his head to her bosom, kissing his hair as she whispered words of comfort.

She smelled wrong. She sounded wrong. She _felt_ wrong. Her arms were thin and her body wasn't soft and pliant, and she was far too tall. He could feel her trembling with her own grief, but her embrace was strong and loving, yet still somehow so terribly, _terribly_ wrong. The comfort she offered was familiar, but it is _so_ unlike his mother's the weight of her love made him cry harder.

Great sobs wracked his small body, crushing him until he wass hyperventilating, gasping, nearly screaming in his grief.

It seemed to go on forever, him weeping while Jane and her mother hugged him tighter. Thankfully Lady Adeline didn't bother to tell him it would be alright, that it would get better. She just held him, pressing his head into her shoulder, humming tunelessly and rubbing his back. She's not his mother, his mother is dead on the table and she is never, _ever_ going to get up. Not to hug him, or rub his back, or _tsk_ over hair which has gotten too long, or be annoyed when she trips over his his soldiers. She won't be there to be cross when Gunther refuses to eat his dinner or tracks in mud on newly scrubbed floors or when he hides frogs under his bed and Gunther is unable stop the flow of tears once they have started.

Not that he would have, if he had been able.

Without warning his father's large hand closed on his arm, yanking him roughly out of her lap. Gunther found himself plopped unceremoniously on the ground- Jane nearly tumbling after him because she was slow to release her grip on his shirt.

"I will not have a weak child who cries like a _girl._ " His father was red-faced and sweating, nearly shouting his words at the surprised woman.

"Wha- what?" she sputtered, confused. She took a deep breath, her chest hitching. "Please, Magnus, I know you are upset." She stood up, setting Jane on the bench and raising her hands in an attempt to calm him. "This has all been very difficult for everyone. Perhaps Gunther can come stay with us for the evening? It would be no trouble, and maybe give you some time to-"

"No." He said firmly, cutting her off. "You think you know what my boy needs more than I do?"

She took an uncertain step towards him, shaking her head. "Of course not, I just thought-"

"What you _thought_ was to coddle the boy. With your _title_ and your _money_ and your _snobbery._ Always coming around here to judge us and our _peasant_ ways." He was practically spitting.

Anger flashed in her eyes. "Do not be ridiculous, I loved Di-"

Magnus let out a sharp bark of mirthless laughter, then leaned close to her face. Spittle flew as he shouted. "Ridiculous? _Ridiculous?!_ If you loved her, as you say, where were you while she lay dying, alone?"

Gunther cringed, shrinking down closer to the floor in an attempt to make himself smaller.

"You are _drunk_ , Magnus." Fresh, angry tears rolled down her flushed face. "While I forgive you for your harsh words -you _know_ I would have been here if-" she swallowed thickly and took another deep breath, starting again. "You are drunk and Gunther does not understand and you are scar-"

His father's voice was cold, empty. "Do not think you have the right to judge me, you scrawny bitch."

The people in the room, having already stopped their own conversations to stare, seemed to be holding a collective breath.

Eyes blazing, Jane's mother practically crackled with electric fury. She jabbed one long finger into his father's chest. "Out of respect for my friend, I will not quarrel with you, here, with her body still laid out." She spoke quietly, but her tone was no less menacing than his father's own harsh words. "But you _will not_ speak to me like that in front of the children."

Magnus chuckled. "Children? What children? Perhaps you mean _my_ son, whom you have no claim over, and that ugly little redheaded mongrel you drag around?"

Jane's mother gasped. "How dare you!"

"NO!" Magnus roared in her face. "How dare YOU? Get out." Magnus swung one bony arm at the door, pointing. "Get out of my house you uppity-"

The Chamberlain, having finally pushed himself through the gawping mourners, shoved himself between Gunther's swaying father and his own furious wife. Jane's father towered over Magnus, nearly half a head taller than his merchant friend.

Gunther sat on the ground, stunned at the sudden turn of events. He looked around at the people gathered in his home. Jane, sitting wide-eyed on the bench as the adults argued. Lady Adeline fuming and hissing angry words over her husband's shoulder. The Lord Chamberlain, talking to Gunther's father in a calm, reassuring manner born of a long friendship. His father, his voice getting louder and louder, thumping the larger man's chest with one flattened hand.

Gunther's mother, lying forgotten on the table.

Overwhelmed, scared, _grieving,_ his breaths piled on top of one another, shallow and rapid, to the point where he was no longer pulling in any air at all. He wasn't breathing.

Just like momma.

 _He wasn't breathing_.

Panicked, Gunther scrabbled to his feet and ran- ducking between skirts and legs-tearing unnoticed out of the house.

He ran, tears blinding him and still desperately gulping for air, without any destination in mind. He ended up in the garden; it was overgrown, neglected. Left untended during his mother's illness. Most of it was dead or dying with the arrival of fall weather-the brown stalks bent and broken. Only one small patch had any color at all-a rough circle of red and yellow flowers, hidden in a far corner. Gunther threw himself on the ground, sobbing. He wrapped his arms around his knees and curled himself into a tight ball.

He lay weeping, for a minute or an hour- he had no frame of reference in his grief- when he heard the sound of small feet crunching in the gravel. A reassuring touch brushed his hair from his brow. Jane, kneeling down beside him, crying her own tears at his distress.

She leaned over and used one thumb to wipe away his tears. She kissed his cheek, pressed her forehead to his neck.

Gunther uncurled and pulled her down beside him, wrapping her in a desperate hug. Jane responded by worming her way closer, linking her arms around his middle, snuggling her face in his chest.

She didn't say anything, just made soothing noises which hummed against him.

It was familiar and warm. Comforting in a way that nothing else had been, and while it didn't make this whole situation alright, or the loss of his mother even slightly, _marginally_ better, it did remind him that he was still loved. Unconditionally and with the force of her entire little being, by his friend Jane.

Eventually his breathing evened out, his sobs calming to hiccups. Hiccups which, in turn, lessened to the occasional hitched breath.

Jane must have felt comforted as well, because she had fallen asleep in his arms, pulling him closer in her slumber, linking her legs with his. Her soft snores soothed him, her warmth a balm for his tattered heart. Worn out, Gunther fell asleep coiled around his friend.

His fatigue was so complete, he didn't stir when Jane's father untangled them. He handed Jane's limp form to her pale mother, and kissed Gunther's temple. "I am sorry," he whispered, "for all of this. But you are loved, Gunther Breech." His hand smoothed down Gunther's hair as he turned towards the house, carrying him to his bed. "So very loved."


	5. Forgotten

He'd snuck away again, slipped the leash of his handlers, and darted silently through empty halls of his father's manse. Gunther was careful not to tread heavily lest the sound echo and give away his position, preventing an escape.

Though, if he were aware enough to look at his daily routine with an outside eye, he would have seen how unlikely it was that anyone would stop him. If he _had_ run into one of the few staff his father employed it was more likely they'd pretend not to have seen him rather than risk their master's censure.

Who were they to order around the merchant's son?

As such, Gunther's escape -or whatever his afternoon forays into the forest could be called- was pretty much guaranteed.

And while he _liked_ to think his flight was the result of being fleet of foot or particularly cunning, even at his young age Gunther understood the supervision paid for by his father was, at best, lackadaisical.

He'd learned that word only this week.

Found it in a tome of terribly boring poetry, slogging through the murky verses only because he'd already read everything his tutor had put in front of him. Weary of his tutor's droning voice, Gunther had felt no desire to wake the sleeping man from his slumber to receive another pointless lecture or poorly thought-out lesson.

Rather than disappear -as was his usual routine- into what _appeared_ to be incoming weather, he'd picked up the poetry begun to read.

Boring stuff, that.

In hindsight, he should have just chanced the weather.

 _But_ that afternoon he had learned a new word which he could apply to his current state, so not all was lost. Today there was no rain, the sun shone brightly, the sky was dotted with few clouds, and his supervision was lackadaisical.

His tutor was snoring loudly enough Gunther would have _plenty_ of time to effect an escape, should the man wake up. _Bog weevils_ , he'd probably be able to hear the man's snores from the yard.

Picking his way through the hall, Gunther stopped to listen before ducking into the empty kitchen. The cook was at the market and the maids must have been upstairs.

Treading carefully, Gunther pocketed an apple and a few tarts, then hopped over the half door before bolting through the lawn to the trees.

Once he lost sight of the house, Gunther turned to follow a faint rabbit trail down the hill. Crashing through a thicket, Gunther headed to where a dilapidated gardener's shed leaned precariously against the overgrowth. Rotting and likely held together by the bushes which pressed against the curving sides, it sat forgotten.

Not that Gunther considered it as such. He saw the leaning structure -cobwebs and all- as singularly _his._ A secret place, belonging to him alone, where Gunther had hidden his cache of treasures- including his bow.

The bow was stashed, wrapped in oilcloth with his oft-retrieved arrows, high up in the eaves of the small building where the roof was still mostly intact. Even if someone chanced upon the deteriorating shed, it was unlikely they could would care enough to look for anything of value...or more precisely: of value to anyone but a young, lonely boy.

But to Gunther, the bow and his small stash of arrows were priceless. A scant bit of control over a world completely of his father's making. The possibility of excelling at something _he_ chose to learn, and doing so on his own terms.

* * *

His father had promised him a bow on his ninth birthday, provided Gunther earn top marks on all of his subjects.

Unfortunately, Gunther had _not_ received top marks.

His tutor had reported Gunther's inattention and poor study habits to his father, citing laziness and general stupidity. Gunther had _tried_ to explain it to his father -tried describing the dismal quality of his lessons, lengthy breaks between activities, and his tutor's frequent naps- to no avail.

As the adult his tutor held all the power- Gunther would have been better off twisting the truth than attempting outright honesty. But still he had tried, begging his father to listen.

His explanations had fallen on deaf ears. Magnus had dismissed Gunther's pleas for leniency with a heavy hand and a demand he improve _or else._

A terrible and open ended-threat. From a parent like Magnus, it could mean anything from a drunken tirade to a cold shoulder. Maybe worse.

 _Or else._

It had sent cold shivers down his spine. An effective means to ensure his Gunther had buckled down on his studies, though on days like today-when his lessons were not long enough to fill the hours, Gunther found himself a bit adrift.

Unfortunately -or perhaps fortunately, he wasn't sure- like Gunther himself, the promise of a bow and the _or else_ had been forgotten.

There had been no bow on his ninth birthday. Or his tenth for that matter- despite Gunther's nearly desperate attempt to learn everything he was tasked with.

In the end, he'd nicked a bow from one of his father's shipments.

Gunther had been down at the docks helping with inventory when he'd pried open a crate for the shipping clerk. There sitting on top of the packing straw, was a bow.

The bow had been packed poorly -just set carelessly on top of the other items in the crate, really- and had spent the trip rubbing against the raw wood of the box lid. The dark brown finish was marred with scratches, and part of the decorative scrolling near the grip had been rubbed off.

The man checked it against the inventory list, and let out a sharp curse. The bow had been special ordered for some noblewoman or another and had been bound for the castle. Now with it _damaged_ , his father's company would be responsible for commissioning another.

His father's man had complained, muttering at the loss. Despite the obvious craftsmanship, there was no way a noble would accept it as is. Even with some cosmetic repairs, the damage meant they'd have to charge next to nothing for such a well-made weapon, _if_ they bothered selling it at market, at all.

Casting it aside with a grumble, the clerk moved on to the next box.

Gunther looked at it longingly.

It was garbage, really. Who would notice?

No one, surely.

A few hours later, having completed inventory, Gunther wandered back over to the box which held the unwanted bow.

With a quick check to make sure no one was watching, Gunther slipped the bow out of the box and slung it over his shoulder. No one paid him any mind; he was a common enough sight at the docks, he supposed. Chest puffed, elbows out, strides purposeful, Gunther strolled out of the warehouse like he had every right to claim the bow as his own.

And why not? The clerk had said it was worthless, had he not?

Gunther's bravado had lasted right up until he spied the tops of his father's house.

Suddenly fearful of being accused of thievery (he understood he _was_ a thief, after all) Gunther left the road and dashed to a hidden meadow where he laid the bow out to examine it properly.

Even with his untrained eye, he could see the shipping damage was merely cosmetic. Gunther could find no place where the wood had gotten wet, where worms had found a way in, or where the curve of the bow had cracked as a result of the poor packing. The scratches were only along the left side; and while it _had_ destroyed one edge of what he assumed was some decorative scrolling, flowers which were reflected on the other side, it did not seem to impair the function of the weapon. If anything, the rough finish would make it easier for Gunther to grip the bow while pulling back the string.

It was clearly an expensive bow. He debated returning it...but what if his father caught him? Was it worth the risk?

Probably not.

It wasn't a man's bow, at least, he didn't think so. Even with his limited knowledge he was sure a normal longbow would be taller than himself- so perhaps this one smaller bow made for a woman? The clerk _had_ mentioned it was intended for a noblewoman-perhaps that explained the flowers?

Not that Gunther knew any of this for certain. His studies had been rather lacking when it came to warfare, and without any training on weaponry he was only making guesses about the bow itself- but he could see it's _potential,_ as it related to him.

Potential for learning something _useful_ , without the bumbling interference of one of his instructors. Potential for impressing his father with a perfected, self-taught skill. Potential for an escape from his isolated, scheduled, haphazardly-controlled days.

Potential for something which was _his._

Also, it was the potential for a beating, should his misappropriation be discovered.

 _No._ He was definitely not going to return it.

Though it weighed on him, the knowledge he had stolen the bow. Stealing was _wrong_ , and Gunther knew it. So he'd hid his crime, stashing away the burning feeling of guilt that went with it, in his secret place. Tucked the bow in the shed with the rest of his hoard: a string of acorn tops, a small pile of antlers he'd found during his wanderings, the partial skull of a wild boar bleached by the sun, a collection of rocks which sparkled when wet.

It was a long time before Gunther had found catgut to string it with; longer still before he'd shaken off his shame enough to pull the bow out and actually attempt the stringing.

Not having any experience in the matter, he'd been unable to figure out just _how_ to go about attaching the string to the ends of the bow. After three frustrating hours, two torn fingernails, several _painful_ welts to the inside of his arms and calves, and a pair of bloodied palms later, Gunther gave up. He'd nearly cried in his frustration, screamed and stomped at the loss of his dream, but rather than giving into his tears - _only girls cried_ \- Gunther had launched the useless thing into the tall grass and stormed home.

To get so close but being unable to realize his dream? It was better just to forget it.

But it still hurt.

The solution presented itself a few days later. Gunther had accompanied his father to the castle and found himself wandering the knight's yard while his father argued with a tall, thin man. After watching the knights practice for a while -their bows seemed to work _perfectly-_ Gunther stopped at the forge to watch the men inside.

The pounding of the anvil, the glow of the metal. It never got old. He was so entranced he almost missed it when a boy, no older than himself, stepped out of the forge. Quick as a whip, the boy strung a long bow before handing the weapon off to a waiting knight.

 _How had he done that?_

Gunther stepped forward, wanting to ask, but the boy turned and disappeared back into the forge-but not before hanging a strange contraption on a waiting hook.

As nonchalantly as possible, Gunther sauntered over to the hook and pocketed the piece of rope and leather before slipping away.

He could return it later.

The stringer weighing heavily in his pocket, Gunther walked back over to where his father was still deep in conversation. He tried to pay attention to their conversation, but could not. Names he didn't know, quantities of goods in numbers hard to imagine, items shipped to places he was unfamiliar with. Gunther found himself bouncing in place, twitching and hopping with anxious energy. Burning with the guilt of what he had done, Gunther found it quite impossible to remain patient while his father finished his business.

After a few minutes of fidgeting his father shot him a cross look.

Gunther paled.

Not wanting to attract any further attention, he wandered back over to where the knights were practicing. In an attempt to affect a singularly _unaffected_ mein, Gunther schooled his features. Should his father notice him, he'd find nothing worth censure.

The yard itself was a hive of activity; men practicing swords and archery, people running about on various errands, the clanging of the forge, servants bustling to and fro. He rarely accompanied his father to the castle, but whenever he did, it always seemed so _busy._ A stark contrast to the emptiness of his father's estate.

Against the wall, his feet planted and his arms crossed, Gunther was largely overlooked. He took the opportunity to watch the archers noting their stance, the pause as they aimed, the smooth motion of the pull and release, the solid _thunk!_ as the arrows hit their mark.

Looking over at where his father was growing more red-faced and frustrated, Gunther did his best to remain unnoticed. It worked for a while but in a yard of constant movement, his inactivity eventually drew the attention of a small boy, his dirty face hidden by a tattered, over-sized hat.

The boy sidled up to Gunther and leaned against the wall, mimicking his pose. "I saw what you did." He said.

Gunther started. "Excuse me?"

"I saw what you did," the child repeated.

Gunther felt his stomach drop. And here he had thought he'd had managed to escape notice.

The boy poked his pocket where the item lay. "You stole Jethro's stringer."

The timbre of the boy's voice was odd. Gunther turned and studied the boy, _really_ looking at him- no _her-_ for the first time. The _boy_ was really a _girl._ Her hair was completely hidden, tucked up into her ridiculous hat; the floppy brim shading any hint of girlish features. She was clothed in what looked like a stable-hand's outfit. It was at at least two years too big for her and more than three years past due for the trash heap.

What kind of person was he dealing with here? A beggar? A pickpocket? Child or not, this girl could easily blackmail him for his thievery. Fear crawled uncomfortably up Gunther's spine. If she told his father, he'd be in trouble for sure. Not just for stealing the - _what had she called it?_ \- the stringer.

No, his father would want to know _why_ Gunther had taken the stringer, and find out about the bow. The _stolen_ bow.

 _Or else._

Gunther shuddered, suddenly feeling trapped. Without any other option, he fell back on rote denial.

"I did not." he said in his haughtiest tone.

"You did." she countered. She gave him a knowing look.

"I did not. I merely _borrowed_ it." Gunther puffed out his chest. "I shall bring it back, once I have strung my bow."

The girl looked at him questioningly, her eyebrows drawing together. "How will you unstring it then?"

Gunther didn't understand. Why would he unstring his bow?

His confusion must have shown on his face, because she rolled her eyes. "You cannot just _leave_ your bow strung. You are _supposed_ to take the bowstring off when you put the bow away. Otherwise the limbs will get twisted, or the string will break." She scratched the tip of her nose, adding another smear of dirt to her freckled face. "You should know that."

Gunther _hadn't_ known that. His inexperience rankled low in his gut. It bothered him how little he _did_ know. Not that he'd let this... this _girl_ know that. "I suppose you think you know more than I do." He said, disdainfully.

The girl shook her head. "No. Just that bit." She sighed, disappointed. "I was supposed to get a bow of my own, but it got broken."

Gunther wondered at the truthfulness of her statement. Who would give a town beggar, a _female_ one no less, a bow?

"In any case," she said, "I do not need my stringer. You can have it if you want. Better than stealing."

Gunther's face heated. He didn't like being called out on his lie, even if he _had_ been caught stealing, not borrowing. "I do not want your charity."

"Alright." She shrugged and went back to watching the knights, her face hidden by the brim of her hat.

Gunther's hand found its way into his pocket. His fingers toyed with leather. Would she tell? She had no reason not to.

The girl noticed his fidgeting. "We could trade."

Gunther was cautious. "Trade? For what? I have nothing to trade."

"Nothing at all?"

"No." His father carried all their money. It was rare for Gunther to get his own coin to spend in the market.

"That is a problem." She looked up at him. "Well then, you could trade me a promise."

Gunther eyed her warily. "A promise?"

"You know, for something the next time you come to the castle." She gave him a reassuring smile.

"How do you know I do not live here?"

Her face was impassive. "You do not live here, or in town."

"What would you want?" he asked.

She shrugged again. "I dunno."

Gunther considered her offer. A trade _was_ better than being a thief ...again. He had already stolen the bow, not that _she_ knew that. Still, somehow stealing the stringer seemed a little less honorable than the theft of the bow. If stealing could _ever_ be considered honorable. Gunther glanced over at the forge where the blond boy was hauling buckets. He _needed_ to return the stolen stringer, and not just because he'd been caught.

Stealing the bit of leather, and the bow for that matter, was _wrong._

"Yes, then." Gunther agreed. "A promise, for your stringer."

"You will have to put the other one back."

"I-," Gunther hesitated. Could he do it without getting caught? He supposed he had no choice. "Agreed."

"Champion." She spit in her hand and held it out.

Aghast, Gunther stared at her in wide-eyed horror.

When he made no move to take her hand, the girl mimed spitting into her hand, her hat flopping comically, and thrust her hand back at him.

Reluctantly, Gunther mimicked her actions, feeling the cooling wetness of her spit combine with his own still-warm spit as they shook hands. The wetness squished between their clasped fingers.

Without any further conversation, she released his hand and dashed off to places unknown. Gunther slunk back over to the forge, wiping his hand on his pants with a grimace. After making sure no one was looking, hung the stolen stringer back on its hook.

A few minutes later she returned and handed him a wrapped bundle. "Here. I put my arrows in there as well. I do not need them."

 _Maggots._ He hadn't even _thought_ about arrows. "Thank you."

"You are welcome." She glanced around nervously. Her eyes landed on on something on the battlements. "Well then, I must go. I am in disguise, you know."

Gunther nodded, as if she made perfect sense. As though _any_ part of their interaction had made sense.

"You will not forget your promise?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I will not."

She nodded and without looking back, scampered off.

Gunther and his father arrived back at the estate by early afternoon.

For the most part, Gunther had managed to escape his father's notice during the ride home. Pleased with the day's business, Magnus made no inquiries about Gunther's time at the castle, nor did he ask about the cloth-wrapped bundle Gunther had strapped to his pony.

After being dismissed, Gunther nearly exploded out of the house, running directly to the meadow where he had so carelessly tossed his prize.

He waded through the tall grass, unsure where to look.

He'd been angry when he threw it, so he hadn't watched to see where the bow landed. The grass was nearly waist high and still green, and he could feel the panic of its loss tightening his chest.

How could he be so _careless?_ To give up so easily, in the face of minor adversity? To throw away his _one chance_ at something he had wanted for so long? All because he'd been frustrated at not being able to string the bow.

The traded stringer sat in his pocket, hot where it pressed against his skin.

Such a stupid reason to have cast it aside.

Finally, _finally,_ he found the bow at the base of a thick patch of grass. With a sigh of relief, Gunther picked up the bow and examined it thoroughly.

He'd been lucky. The nights had been dry so no rain or excess dew had accumulated in the lush foliage to warp the bow. Except for the expected scratches, it appeared undamaged.

He hoped.

Hooking the two pieces of leather to the ends of the bow, Gunther stepped on the rope, pulled the bow upwards, and strung it on the first try.

He was astounded.

It was so _simple._

Excited now, he ran back to where his pack sat against a rock. He deposited the stringer and grabbed up an arrow. He notched it, took aim at a nearby stump, and let it fly.

The arrow flew wild, sailing past Gunther's intended target, and skidding to a halt in the dirt. Gunther ran to retrieve it, smiling.

* * *

All of that was ancient history, as far as Gunther was concerned.

His father had not learned about the bow, his tutors were quite used to Gunther's regular disappearances, he'd had no further run-ins with the town girl, and he was close -so _tantalizingly_ and _tormentingly_ close- to hitting the bullseye he'd painted on his stump.

He would do it, though. Hit the bullseye.

 _Today._

Gunther pulled open the door to his concealed cache. Dust motes floated lazily in the slanted, golden light that filtered in through the many chinks in the shed's walls. Gunther wrinkled his nose at the familiar musty smell of the place as he reached, with utmost care, to lift his treasure down.

A quick inspection assured him everything was still in good condition, so with practiced ease Gunther strung his bow, slung it over his shoulder, and set off for the meadow where he'd painted a bullseye on the stump.

The grass was dry and crunched beneath his boots as Gunther made his way to his destination. He was grateful for the change in season; more than once he'd nearly lost one of his precious arrows to a wild shot.

Not that he had to worry about missing his target completely, anymore. After so many afternoons of practice -his sore shoulders were a testament to his devotion- it was rare for an arrow to go so far off course it missed his intended mark. But the bullseye? As of yet, it remained elusive.

 _Today._

Gunther reached the meadow and set his pack down. He notched an arrow, drew his arm back, exhaled, and released.

The arrow struck the stump off-center with a dull _thwack!_

Gunther frowned.

Grabbing another arrow, he repeated the process.

Notch, pull, release.

 _Thwack!_

Bullseye!

With a _WHOOP!_ and a hop, Gunther shouted his victory to the sky. He ran to the stump to examine his handy-work and cooed with pleasure at the deep divot the arrow had made in the center - _the very center!_ \- of the bullseye.

Filled with pride - _he'd hit the bullseye!-_ Gunther ran back to do it again, his worries and cares forgotten.


	6. Cloud Watching

Father had arranged for Gunther to begin his squire's training a whole year earlier than the norm, citing his superior skill and education as the reason for his early admittance.

And while Gunther _was_ superior to so many of his peers -in fact he couldn't think of anyone to compare himself to directly- he understood the early acceptance was probably less to do with his own advanced skill set and more to do with his father's deep pockets.

Not that it mattered, really. Gunther had plenty of tutors and instructors during the last few years, all of which had declared him exceptional. A true prodigy. Long gone were the days when he had to sneak away; now he was often excused early, his instructors slipping out or falling asleep while he practiced his form. Left to his own devices, Gunther had excelled -everyone said so- but so much of it had been _boring,_ so much so he had often abandoned one task or another to pick up his bow and run through their estate.

It was nothing to hit his target. Sometimes he spent hours just firing, over and over, at his favorite stump-it had been chipped down by a third or more over the years- but that wasn't actual _practice._ It was just a means to focus. To forget whatever new restriction or expectation he'd been saddled with. To block out whatever strings his father had pulled as his own personal suffer puppet.

No. _Practicing_ with his bow was a completely different exercise. Running, jumping, leaping from boulders or low branches. Holding multiple arrows in his firing hand so he could launch a volley of _one!two!three!_ in quick succession, striking his target multiple times before it could reach the ground. Once Gunther had even managed to pierce _two_ falling leaves while bodily flipping end over end to the ground, after hanging upside-down from a branch. His _landing_ had left much to be desired, but the leaves themselves had been struck right through the center, still impaled on his arrow. It was a victory Gunther had crowed about...once he'd been able to hobble over and retrieve it.

Leaves were easy. Finding an _actual_ challenge while running alone in the woods, was a bit of a trail of itself. Gunther could always chase game, he supposed, but Gunther didn't hunt. Or rather, he didn't hunt to _kill._

Father said only the poor needed to get their meat through such activities- but Gunther very much enjoyed stalking, sighting, and aiming for his prey. It became a great game to strike below or to the right of the animal, startling it from it's chosen hiding place. There was no need to _kill_ anything. Striking an animal mean risking a broken arrow head, or losing an arrow to a bad hit and a Besides, who wanted to retrieve bloody arrows and wash them? Certainly not Gunther.

But even this, his favorite activity, had become rather stale as of late. What fun was there in being the best if there was no one around to appreciate his obvious prowess?

So when his father had announced he would be starting squire training with the castle's own prodigy he had been rather excited. _Finally_ someone to test his own skill against. He'd surpass him, of course, but still- that was hardly the boy's own fault.

* * *

Gunther rarely went to the castle.

If he did, it was in the company of his father and it was expected he pay attention to whatever machinations Magnus was effecting. _Watch and learn._ Truly, Gunther would rather not. While he appreciated the trappings that came with his father's success -who _didn't_ like a new doublet or tunic every now and then?- he was well aware of the barely-hidden looks of distaste people cast their way. Magnus scoffed when Gunther voiced his insecurities, claiming their feelings were just jealousy, or the end result of a bad business decision.

Gunther wasn't so sure Magnus was correct, having been on the receiving end of his father's ambitions often enough to know differently. In an attempt to distance himself, Gunther would slink away whenever possible. It _was_ one of his more advanced skills, after all.

When the day finally arrived Gunther was ready. New doublet and pants, his old cloak and boots (it wouldn't do to appear stuck up) and the short sword his father had commissioned for him last year.

Gunther walked into the knight's training yard, confident and assured that yes, he didn't just _belong_ here, but that he was deserving of such an honor. Chin up, chest out, confidence dripping from every pore; Gunther strolled over to where his father was in heated conversation with a tall, stately man in half armor. He'd almost made it to them when he was bowled over, knocked bodily and unceremoniously into the dirt, by a blur dirtied clothes and frizzy red hair.

"Oh, maggots. I do apologize,I-" The ragamuffin struggled as he tried to disentangle from their twisted limbs. "Gunther?" he asked tentatively, "It _IS_ you! I almost did not believe it when Sir Theodore said you would be coming today!"

Gunther pushed himself up, extracting himself from the... _girl's?_ arms. _Yes._ It _was_ a girl. Though even with her wild hair it was a bit hard to tell. She was dressed like a boy, breeches and a long tunic, and her skin was covered with an unfortunate number of sun-darkened freckles. Gunther felt a vague sense of deja vu, but couldn't quite place it. "I am sorry, but have we met?"

The girl giggled. "Of course we have, silly. Do you not remember?" She cocked her head to the side and frowned. "You do not. I suppose I _should_ be insulted but it has been so terribly long since you have been to the castle. Though I have seen you in town on occasion. And even once at the docks but you did not see me." The girl spoke so quickly Gunther had a hard time keeping up. "We shall be friends again soon enough. Are you not excited to start your squire's training? I know I am! We shall be learn together- no doubt it will irk my mother to _no end_ to know it is you. Not you so much- it is your father really, none of the staff seems to like him- and she still misses your mother so very much. But that is neither here nor there and oh! I am just so terribly excited- isn't this wonderful?"

Gunther wasn't able to process it all. "And you are?"

"Oh!" The girl laughed. "I am Jane, of course!" She stuck out her hand as if to shake.

Again, Gunther had the vague sense that he had done this before.

Jane? Jane? Did he know a Jane? And why would she think she would be training as a squire? His mind whirled as he looked around at the other boys in the group. None of them seemed to find her presence at all odd.

Could this be _The_ Jane _?_ The one who had (supposedly, because who really believed such tall tales?) saved the young prince and brought back a dragon?

Gunther looked around for the fearsome beast, but it was apparently not in residence at the moment. He turned his attention back to the girl before him.

The great, powerful, much-talked about and fearsome warrior Jane was _this_ skinny, chicken-legged waif whose hair looked like it had never seen the touch of comb?

She smiled up at him, her eyes twinkling with excitement. Her freckles were dark and seemed to cover every part of her exposed skin.

He was supposed to train with a girl? A dirty, talkative, unlady-like girl? One who, despite despite _clearly_ being younger than him by several years, already achieved no small amount of glory on her own- _by taming an actual dragon_.

Gunther looked at her outstretched hand with shock and horror, when it hit him.

She was a hero _._ Nay, a _heroine._ She had already earned her place here.

He had not.

And on some level, despite all of his arrogant self-confidence, Gunther knew he had not. His father had _purchased_ his entry. Having just arrived, Gunther was already at a disadvantage.

The girl, _Jane,_ still holding her hand out awkwardly, looked suddenly uncomfortable. "Gunther?"

He was saved from having to answer by his father's shouting.

"I will not have it! It is an outrage! A- a- an insult to the natural order of things!"

Gunther pulled himself to his feet and dusted off his pants. He turned his back on the gi- on Jane.

The tall man spoke calmly and rationally. "Who _we_ decide is worthy of training is none of your concern, Magnus. The king has decreed Jane shall receive squire's training for her service to the kingdom, and so she shall. Should you choose to remove Gunther from this group's training, then you will have to wait until we have another group of appropriate skill and age...and by then, he may find himself too old."

Gunther suddenly felt cold. His days stretched out before him; long and empty. Lonely. "Father?" Gunther asked tentatively. He did _not_ want to forfeit his training, girl or not.

"But she's a bloody _female!"_ His father's voice filled the courtyard.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gunther could see Jane's shoulders fall. Had she never realized?

Sir Theodore was patient calm. "We are quite aware, Magnus. Now, if you are done, I do believe the Lord Chamberlain had requested your presence."

His father tried to argue, his mouth gaping at the dismissal.

No one, _no one,_ gainsaid his father.

Gunther was impressed and a little afraid.

"Good _day_ , Magnus." The older man gave a slight bow. The knight's face betrayed nothing of his thoughts, just a calm expression of patience.

Frustrated, but unable to argue his point any further, Magnus stomped away. He made it halfway across the yard before he spun on his heel and came back. He grabbed Gunther by the elbow, his fingers digging in painfully, and pulled him aside. Gunther stumbled in his hurry to keep up, making his father curse under his breath. A furtive glance at the other squires proved they were trying very hard not to appear as though they were following the entire exchange.

"I will not stand for this outrage," Magnus hissed, demanding Gunther's attention. Little bits of spittle flew from his lips and his jowls shook with anger. "I _will_ be speaking to the king about this...this...this _stain_ on the kingdom's honor."

Gunther cringed. His father was making no attempt to be discreet. Surely Sir Theodore, the gathered knights _and_ the other squires could hear him clearly. Jane included.

Magnus gave him a little shake. "Are you listening, boy?"

Gunther nodded. "Yes, father."

"Do not embarrass me," Magnus's face was flushed, sweating. "Do not dishonor our name by failing to perform at the standard to which I hold you. Do not," his fingers tightened briefly, "let some _girl_ \- the scabby, ugly, unmarriageable, _worthless_ get of a stuck-up bitch - make a mockery out of you." His voice was more wrathful, more _sinister_ , than Gunther had ever heard it. "Because if you do," Magnus continued, practically throwing off sparks of rage, "I promise you, Gunther, there will be hell to pay."

 _Hell to pay_. Gunther swallowed hard. This was a new one, and it made _or else_ sound like a day at the faire. A cold, sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

 _Hell to pay_.

With a last hateful glare at the girl in question, Magnus spit on the ground and left.

Gunther stood stock still for a moment, acutely aware his father's outburst had been witnessed by a rapt audience. Not wanting to see the accusation -or worse, the _pity-_ in their eyes, Gunther took a deep breath and flicked imaginary dust off his sleeve; brushing at the pretend speck as if his father's ... _unpleasantness_ had never happened at all.

* * *

The day was not going as well as Gunther had hoped.

Or rather, how he _needed_ it to go.

The morning had been dedicated to evaluating the new squires' skills. It should have been simple enough, Gunther was well-used to being scrutinized by his instructors, but for some reason nothing, _nothing,_ seemed to be going his way. And the knights? Well, Gunther thought the knights doing the testing were being rather unfair.

It had started off pleasantly enough. Jane, Gunther, and the older boys were put through the paces of their sword forms. Nothing difficult, especially since they were using the wooden practice swords. Jane had done surprisingly well, and Gunther had (secretly) admired her footwork. But then the group had been sorted into pairs for sparring. Being younger than the other boys and of a similar height to Jane, Gunther had found himself partnered with the object of his father's ire.

He privately contemplated the _unfairness_ of the pairing; fighting Jane meant he would not be able to showcase his superior swordsmanship. He'd have to be gentle in deference to her gender and tender age. Gunther was so lost in his musings he didn't notice the look of determination or the hard set of Jane's shoulders. Sir Theodore had hardly called "begin!" when Gunther found himself on his back, staring at the sky, with no idea how he had gotten there.

From there, things had gone downhill. His confidence slipping away from him slowly at first, then faster and faster as each failure piled upon the one before. It wasn't long before it felt like Sir Theodore and the other knights were criticising just about everything Gunther had done. His stance, his footwork, the placement of his hands on the sword. The movement of his shoulders, the stiffness of his wrist, then almost immediately afterwards- the apparent limpness of his wrist.

It was frustrating.

Shield-work had been no better. Gunther had found himself knocked down again and again. No one laughed outright, but Gunther felt the barely contained mirth of the other boys. Every movement was scrutinized, every mistake criticised. The knight leading the session yelled at him for not placing his feet in a defensive position, then for keeping his center of mass (whatever _that_ was) too high, and then for not bracing his body correctly to take the hit.

Each blow to his shield had been jarring, reverberating up his arm and through his shoulder, making his teeth rattle. He'd even bitten his tongue after one particularly vicious blow, the taste of blood making him gag as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

His only saving grace had been his endurance and strength, the result of long hours of practice with his bow making his arms and shoulders wiry with corded muscle. At one point Gunther had peeked around his raised shield to see how Jane was holding up against her own barrage of blows. Somehow she was managing to hold her ground, keeping her shield up and her knees bent. Gunther had just long enough to wonder if the knight was going easy on her before he was knocked flat again, his inattention earning him another view of the sky.

Even staves had been nothing short of humiliating. The instructors had given them _padded_ staves, shortened for their smaller height. Despite this concession to _supposed_ safety, Gunther had had his knuckles rapped, his shins knocked, and his feet swept out from under him not once, not _twice,_ but _several_ times _._

It was humiliating. The final time Gunther found himself gasping for air, the wind knocked out of him as he stared stupidly at the clouds rolling past. The knight which had laid him out- a shorter, portly man with red nose and cheeks and a heavy accent- didn't bother helping him up. Instead he stormed off, mumbling about "bad form" and "wretched, incurable habits."

Gunther felt his eyes watering. He didn't understand. How could his form be bad? His instructors, well-paid to be the best available, had assured him he was doing well.

Gunther had been sure, _so very sure_ of his own skill. Yet with each failure - _and there had been many-_ his confidence cracked a bit more. Slowly at first, just a chip here and there, then faster and faster until it felt like his whole sense of _himself_ was being slapped away with every hit, every blow.

And with the certainty that he was indeed _failing_ came the knowledge any lack of success would be met with ...disappointment. Gunther was _supposed_ to be the best. His father _expected_ him to be the best. To outshine all others, to defeat any perceived competition. Magnus desired -no, _required_ nothing short of perfection.

But that was not the worst of it. The worst part was that the knights seemed oblivious to the other boys' mistakes. _They_ weren't being chastised for every little thing. _They_ weren't being laid out at every opportunity. No, the boys had it easy. But not just them, because it Jane seemed to be getting the same special treatment. The instructors seemed to _focus_ on Gunther's failures, while ignoring any of Jane's shortcomings.

Favoritism. Pure and simple. There was no other explanation.

How else could he explain it? There was no possible way a girl-child of nine or ten could have any sort of real knowledge about warfare, (supposed heroic accolades or not) so _surely_ the knights were being lenient in their criticisms.

And yet, despite his father's thoughts on the matter, Gunther recognized the need to be more _understanding_ of the girl's feminine sensibilities. He wasn't a monster, after all. Jane _was_ smaller _and_ weaker _and_ well, a _girl._

Still, he did not appreciate the knights being gentle with _her_ at the expense of _him_. Gunther had watched her own exercises… no one had corrected her stance, which seemed terribly wide to Gunther. No one had told her to adjust her grip on her sword, or where she held her shield against her thin chest. From his vantage point, Gunther could see nothing special about her own abilities. Jane _had_ been knocked over by the incomprehensible knight as he battered her shield. She had also been swept off her feet with the staves- but not nearly as often as Gunther had. It was as if her opponent wasn't even trying.

It was unfair.

Once she'd caught him watching and sent him a bright smile before ducking under an oncoming blow. Her confidence further proof Gunther was at a clear disadvantage.

When they had broken for lunch Gunther hadn't just been upset, he'd been _seething._ Angry at the knights for humiliating him, angry at the older boys for besting him _over_ and _over_ , angry at his father for allowing this outrage, angry at Jane for being so...so...so _pleasant_ through the whole blasted ordeal.

Because she was pleasant. And kind. And friendly.

He loathed her easy confidence.

She'd even tried to engage him in conversation throughout their meal, but he rebuffed her attempts. Eventually she stopped trying, and turned away to chat familiarly with a dark-haired scullery maid.

Gunther stared at his food, unable to choke even one bite down. He hated this. Hated his failures, hated the knights, hated his father, hated himself, hated _her._

Unable to sit still any longer, Gunther pushed back from the table and headed back to the training yard. He'd just bent over to retrieve his bow when he heard the low voice of Sir Theodore drifting down from the knight's quarters.

"What are your thoughts on the matter, Sir Ivon?" asked Sir Theodore.

"Och, I dinnae ken." There was a pause and a slight groan of frustration. "I'm fair puckled with all the corrections the wee nyaff has needed."

 _What now?_

"Hm." The older knight's voice was considering. "Well, if you had to list your three main concerns…?"

"The lad has no natural talent for warfare, he disna listen worth a damn, and his father is the lairgest miserable hurdie-"

"Sir Ivon," the older man interrupted, "there is no need for that sort of language. You know as well as I the boy cannot help who his father is."

"Aye. But ye ken, just as well as I, what the man means to turn him into."

Gunther felt sick. They were talking about _him,_

There was a pause before Sir Theodore answered. "The Merchant has ambitions, yes. But he was not always this way, as you recall. And his… machinations… may be precisely _why_ we would do well to take Gunther under our tutelage. He needs," he paused again, "another set of influences in his life."

"Mayhap so, but it dinnae change the fact the lad seems to be unsuited for the martial arts. Aye, he be full a themself enough for two, but that nonsense isn't aff tae save him from the end of an enemy's sword."

"No, no it will not." Now the silver-templed man just sounded resigned. "Perhaps if we-"

Having heard enough, Gunther's hands shook as scooped up his bow, and ran.

He didn't have a destination in mind, no real place to _go. Failure_ had never been an option obviously, but worse than that, he had never even considered it as a possibility. Breath coming in short pained gasps, his feet pounded in time with his racing heart. Through the yard, under the portcullis, down the road into the forest, finally breaking free to a sloping meadow which overlooked the lake.

He was halfway down the hill, ready to disappear into the trees which surrounded the shore, when his boot caught a rock and sent him flying. For what felt like the thousandth time that day, Gunther found himself slammed into the dirt. He landed face-first, getting a mouthful of grit and grass.

It was the final indignity. The last little knick to his confidence.

Gunther rolled over and swept the grime from his mouth. The cheery clouds above blurred as tears filled his eyes. It wouldn't do for anyone to see him cry like a baby, like a girl. The day had been humiliating enough; he didn't need one of the other boys to see him out here, weeping in the grass. Gunther took a deep breath, forcing the tears back. He worked to school his breathing, to calm his racing heart, to smooth his expression.

Eventually, the need to weep faded. Reason returned.

He couldn't just run away. As much as he wanted to, Gunther knew he couldn't just disappear into the forest and run wild for the rest of his days.

But he could right now. Or at least, until it was time to return to the castle. He needed to burn off the rest of his frustration, to focus himself and make sure the tears would not return at an inopportune moment. Gunther pushed himself to his feet, picked up his bow and arrows, and without further preamble, took off at a dead run. He pulled the string back, sighted, and let first one, then another arrow fly.

He ran for what seemed forever. Firing over and over, retrieving his arrows as he went, hopping over boulders, swinging from low branches, shooting leaves from the branches above and catching the arrows as they crashed back down.

His mad dash flushed all sorts of game from the underbrush, but he ignored them for more difficult targets. Rocks he tossed into the air as he ran, a small knot a hundred paces away. There were wild apple trees along the shore. Without missing a step Gunther used one arrow to knock an apple from its branch, then another to pin it to the trunk before it hit the ground.

Each pull and _thwack_ of the bow centered him a bit more. Calmed the turbulent roil of his emotions, purging his fear and anxiety.

He could do it. Perform as expected. He _would_ do it, criticism or no.

Too soon he heard the bell toll the hour.

Gunther made his way back to the training yard, lining up with the rest of the young squires as they trickled in. Jane was one of the last to arrive, pressing a small bundle of cheese and bread into his hands with a quiet "for you," before walking over to where the knights stood. Realizing he was hungry after all, Gunther ate quickly while Jane engaged Sir Theodore in a hushed conversation.

The old knight frowned, clearly unhappy with the girl. He shook his head, but she pressed him further.

After a few more whispered phrases, _did Jane just stomp her foot?,_ Sir Theodore dismissed Jane with scowl.

Sir Theodore turned to address the group. "We had planned to evaluate your hand-to-hand combat skills, but it appears Lady Jane has been bid elsewhere by her mother." Sir Theodore pressed his lips into a tight line. "Instead, we shall do hand-to-hand tomorrow with the reminder that as squires, you are to dedicate this time you have been granted to training, and training alone." He gave Jane a pointed look. She blushed and stared at her feet.

"However," he continued, "I see no harm in accommodating one of our own this one time. As a result, we will be assessing your skills with a bow and arrow." He gestured to the girl before him. "Jane, you will go first, so that you may see to your other duties."

Gunther felt warm excitement skitter through his veins.

 _What luck!_

Sure, it was unfair the rest of them had to cater to the girl's whims, but his relief was so all-encompassing, he found it hard to care.

They were to do archery instead! Archery he could do. Licking the last of the crumbs off his fingers, Gunther turned his attention to where Jane was preparing herself for the evaluation. He felt a slight tug on his sleeve; one of the older boys begging his attention. The boy jerked his head in the direction of the other squires where they had all moved back- _way_ back from the line of fire, a few even crouching behind the barrels which lined the walls. Confused, Gunther followed.

They had the right of it.

Jane's showing was nothing but dismal. _Worse_ than dismal. Based on the looks from the gathered knights (and the cowering of his peers) no one had expected much better.

Unable to manage the pull of a larger bow, she'd been given a rather loosely-strung short bow. It was a child's toy, really. While an arrow might fly true, Jane would never be able to hit a target with enough force for the arrow to stick.

Gunter watched, confused, as Jane clumsily set the arrow, yanked back the string, and without _any_ apparent attempt at aiming, let the thing fly.

She _had_ been pointed at the target, Gunther was quite sure, but the arrow went wild. How could it not? At the critical point of release she'd actually _closed her eyes -_ not on purpose, he didn't think- but they'd definitely been closed. It seemed like a bad habit. Maybe she was flinching at the bow's recoil or anticipating the slap of the string against her wrist?

Whatever the reason, the arrow flew wild. _Really_ wild.

It was surprising considering how well she'd done throughout the morning. Several of the knights gasped as the arrow sailed up and over the wall, then sagged with relief when no scream of pain or gurgle of impending doom was heard.

Gunther would have thought she'd have been embarrassed -two of the other squires _had_ ducked behind a barrel, after all- but Jane didn't appear even slightly abashed. Instead she seemed rather relieved.

Handing the bow to Sir Ivon with a shrug she mumbled something about not having injured anyone. With a bow to her instructors, she excused herself.

As she left she gave him a small nod and a secret smile.

Gunther smiled back, feeling superior. He could do better blindfolded, with one hand tied behind his back, hopping on one leg. Finally, _finally_ he was going to be able to show off his skills. Skills which, after Jane's _horrifying_ demonstration, would _certainly_ be immune to censure.

Still, he couldn't help but being a little nervous. The day had gone rather poorly, despite his previous training.

And… and just _what_ was that smile she had given him?

He suddenly felt uneasy. Gunther shook his head, forcing the feeling down. It didn't matter. Archery, he could do. He would show the other squires, the knights, his father, and _Jane_ that he belonged here.

"Gunther lad," Sir Ivon pulled him out of his musings. "Ye be next."

Gunther retrieved his bow. The scarred surface was comfortable in his hand, the familiar heft calming. Putting three arrows in his string hand, Gunther took his position.

He took a deep breath, oriented himself, pulled back the string, and let fly.


	7. Rivalry

"Gunther you are not even _trying._ " Jane brought her sword down on his own.

He didn't bother responding. What was the point?

He _wasn't_ trying.

Gunther half-heartedly pushed his weapon against hers. Instead of forcing her to step back, his unenthusiastic response caused her sword to slide awkwardly down his until the hand guards clacked together. The wooden pommel slammed into his knuckles, making his hand go numb. Gunther hopped out of range, shaking his tingling fingers.

Jane made a sound of exasperation; flinging her head back to stare at the sky.

Gunther sympathized. It had not been a good week.

No, longer than that. It had not been good month, really.

* * *

The first few months of training had been grueling. Physically taxing, yes- but the most awful, most _brutal_ part had been the repeated blows to his ego. The realization he was not just younger, smaller, and weaker than the others, but that he was also _far_ behind the older boys when it came to the various martial arts.

His only saving grace had been his prowess with his bow, and (rather surprisingly) hand-to-hand combat. _Unsurprisingly,_ brawling was frowned upon in the town and castle, so few of the boys had any experience with fighting. With the exception of one _bruiser_ of a lad, a large boy who was destined for the royal guard, the entire group was beginning on equal footing in that particular skill set.

But still, his stomach ached when he thought about how far behind everyone he was. Including Jane.

Though, even with his current malaise, Gunther understood he had made _some_ progress. Just not as much as he would have liked.

It was hard to gauge, really. Comparing himself to the other boys was an exercise in futility, and Jane seemed to be naturally gifted no matter what task was set before her. At first Gunther had been disheartened, almost ready to give up, but then Sir Ivon mentioned Jane had been sneaking into the practice yard her whole life. Watching the knights, getting dirty with the other boys as they imitated the men's exercises. Even now, after having been awarded squire training by the king, she spent every possible free moment lurking around the yard.

Gunther would have admired her determination if it hadn't resulted in _him_ receiving a thrashing from _her_ quite so often.

Still, progress had been made. Sir Ivon had been assigned as his mentor, while Jane had been assigned Sir Theodore. In Gunther's narrow observational scope, it had been a good choice. Jane got on well with Sir Theodore, and the old knight seemed to have a calming effect on her sometimes ... _fervent_ desire to learn. He was patient with her inexhaustible supply of questions, and it was rare for him to snap at her. Sure she still received her fair share of scoldings, but her antics seemed to make the dour old knight smile more often than not.

But Sir Ivon? Well, Sir Ivon was difficult to describe, exactly. His teaching style was _far_ more physically demanding than that of Gunther's private instructors. When Gunther wasn't actively training with swords, shields, or staves, Sir Ivon had Gunther running laps, climbing stairs, or mucking out the stables. Gunther had polished enough armor to outfit _two_ kingdoms, and would have grumbled about busy work if Sir Ivon hadn't plopped down next to him to scrub the rust out of an ancient piece of mail; all the while regaling him with tales of his own illustrious youth.

Privately, and Gunther would never dare to say so out loud, he thought Sir Ivon was a bit daft. Not just because he seemed to _enjoy_ sprinting up the mountain, or his love of the foul-smelling dish he called hoggva, or even his tendency to descend into incomprehensible gobbledygook when excited. No, Gunther thought Sir Ivon was daft because his love of advanced weaponry seemed to go beyond a professional interest. If anything, it teetered alarmingly on the razor-thin edge between poor judgement and fanaticism.

 _Crazed_ fanaticism.

Whereas Jane liked to spend her free time practicing, Sir Ivon liked to spend his idle hours dreaming of, designing, and building elaborate and frightening war machines. Over the last few months Gunther had narrowly escaped maiming - _and perhaps death_ \- at the pointed end of one contraption or another. Once he'd even found himself sprinting through a fallow field, dodging projectiles as Sir Ivon "tested the range" of something he had lovingly named "The Porcupine."

Gunther had little doubt that had _Jane_ had been named his student, along with the chaos of Dragon thrown into their set, the kingdom would have found itself in grave trouble before long.

However, despite his varied (and at times alarming) eccentricities, Sir Ivon was an excellent teacher and often called Gunther to task. Consequently, Gunther was reasonably proud of what he'd learned since training had begun- though at times he resented being saddled with Jane as a partner. Gunther _tried_ not to take his frustration with his own inadequacies out on her, but it was difficult. She was _years_ younger than the other squires, two years younger than Gunther himself, but somehow more advanced than everyone else. Throw in the fact she was the queen's darling and had her _very own dragon?_

Of _course_ he resented her. Not all the time, -Gunther doubted she had _asked_ to be born a female or a prodigy- but enough for it to rankle when his father queried after _her_ progress more than _his._

Yet it had been fine. Truly. Gunther had felt the strain of his training, fallen into bed fatigued but happy, excited to get up again in the morning.

But then winter had passed. With the breaking of the northern ice came ship after ware-laden ship into the kingdom's ports, the cargo in their holds destined for his father's warehouses. With the promised influx of new profits, Magnus placed his own increasingly strident demands on Gunther's time.

Gunther found himself being pulled out of bed earlier and earlier, only to collapse back into it later and later. Most mornings were spent at the dock, hours before the tide and sunrise, loading and unloading ships with his father's men. Mid-day was devoted to Sir Ivon and squire lessons, while the afternoon and evening were for practicing with his ever-chipper partner.

It was so very tiring. Nevermind the time needed to travel between the estate, the seaside, back past the estate and up to the castle, then finally -long after the sun had set- back to the cold, empty rooms of his father's house.

Gunther was exhausted.

He was finding it harder and harder to muster the energy, nevermind the enthusiasm for anything.

* * *

" _Gunther,"_ Jane chided, "come _on._ Why are you just standing there? We are supposed to be sparring."

Gunther flexed his hand, willing the feeling to return.

Without warning, Jane rapped him on the crown of his head with her practice sword.

"OW! What was that for?" Gunther whined, rubbing where his head throbbed painfully. With his luck it would swell, and his hair would stick up!

"I had to get your attention _somehow._ It is like you are not even here." Jane stuck the point of her sword into the soft dirt, "What is wrong with you lately?" she asked.

Gunther shook his head. "Nothing is wrong, Jane. I am fine."

"Well, you do not _seem_ fine." She narrowed her eyes, studying him.

"I do not recall asking for your opinion." Gunther's reply was curt, perhaps bordering on rude. "But go on - How do I seem then?" His lip curled. "Since you know everything?"

Jane groaned in frustration. "I do not _know_ everything. If I did, I would not have asked."

She pressed her own lips together, clearly vexed. Gunther thought she was surely getting ready to yell, or lecture. Instead she took a deep breath and tried again. "Gunther, can you not just tell me what is bothering you? Perhaps I can help you somehow?"

Gunther crossed his arms, petulantly. "I do not need your help."

Jane shook her head sadly. "Based on your performance today, I think you might."

Anger boiled low in his stomach. _How dare she?_

"And what would _you_ know?" He almost spit out the words. "With your perfect life, everyone's little pet, the favorite daughter of _all,_ the great and accomplished _LADY_ Jane."

Jane looked taken aback at his outburst. Well and truly shocked. For a moment, for the slightest and most fleeting seconds, Gunther almost apologized, thinking he saw the prick of tears in her eyes- and then they were gone. Replaced with the fierce determination he was used to seeing from his partner.

"I suppose I do not _know_ anything then, Gunther. But I thought to be your friend." She put her hands on her hips and leaned forward. "If that is not what you want, then at the _very_ least try to best me? Otherwise, practice is just boring."

"I do not need to _try_ to best you, Jane. I _can_ beat you."

Jane rolled her eyes and retrieved her wooden sword. "Well if you are so sure of yourself, then pick up your sword and try presenting me with an actual challenge for once. Lady or not, I am trouncing you at everything except archery."

"You are not."

"Are too." She countered mockingly.

"Are not." If she could be childish, so could he.

"Well then prove it, dung brain."

Dung brain?

 _Ugh! She was so aggravating!_

"If I am dung brain, then you are a- a- a frog rider!" Gunther smiled at his own cleverness.

"Dragon is a frog then? Hardly." Jane scoffed. "You had better not let him hear you say so. Nevertheless, it is better to be a frog rider than a bog weevil."

"Nettle nose."

"Pig Pus."

Annoyed with her insults, Gunther shook off his fatigue. Picking up his sword, he settled into defensive stance. If she wanted a real challenge, he would give it to her. It might not happen today, but he'd best her.

Eventually.

* * *

 _AN: Shout out to Kyra for keeping me on track with these things. Sometimes I get a little ambitious, sometimes I get a little lost, but she's always great at keeping me focused and/or calling me out on any crappy writing._


	8. Gunther Rules

"Already done testing Jane on her stealth capabilities, Sir Ivon?"

"Aye, lad. She be about as stealthy as a three-legged donkey. But ye already ken that, dinne ye?" Sir Ivon placed his hands on his belly as he chuckled at Gunther's mortified expression. "Creepin' about up here, quiet as a two-legged donkey yerself."

Had he not been a practiced liar, Gunther might have blushed at being caught assessing his competition. Though it did sting a bit -Sir Ivon calling him out so easily. Gunther thought perhaps he'd been improving. Instead of giving into his embarrassment, Gunther cleared his throat and asked, "Is it time for my test, Sir Ivon?"

The knight gave him an impatient look before dropping his hands and sighing. "Nay, Gunther. Today is the king's rest day, and seeing as how ye have already failed miserably, ye are dismissed." Sir Ivon turned on his heel and marched off to his own quarters.

Bother.

Somehow Gunther had failed a test he had yet to actually take -but Jane, having taken _and failed_ her own test- had in turn, bested _him_. By one whole donkey leg!

 _Jane._

Gunther rolled his eyes. It was unfair.

He should at least get the _opportunity_ to outdo the red-headed nuisance.

Hearing voices in the courtyard below, Gunther wandered out onto the balcony. Where Jane, Smithy, and Jester were animatedly discussing a round of...bandyball?

They were going to play bandyball?

He was _almost_ jealous.

Sure, it was a childish game, not requiring any real skill at all, but having grown up mostly alone, he'd never had the chance to play. There just weren't any other children in the lands surrounding his father's house. At least, he didn't think so. Did any of the people who worked at the estate have children? He'd never seen any; nary a maid or cook with a babe in tow, but surely _some_ of them must have children. Even servants had lives, didn't they?

In any case, there had never been a child of similar age present when Gunther had slipped away from his tutors roamed the woods alone. If there had been- well, he wasn't sure he'd have made free to play with them, but then again, who knew? It seemed likely he might have; and thus -at the very least- acquired a _working_ knowledge of all the games and contests the other town children knew by heart.

Not that it mattered any longer. In the years since beginning his squire's training, Gunther lacked the free time for such childish play anyway. And at this point, Gunther had no real interest to learn. Though - _Gunther had to admit_ \- he much enjoyed watching others. Bandyball might have looked fun to play, but he thought it was even better as spectator sport. Exciting, suspenseful, and so fast-paced even just watching from the sidelines left the audience breathless.

Gunther had chanced to see the castle's knights and guards play a few times; suffice to say, it could be a fierce game- _especially_ when played by adults.

Childish game or not, when the knights played, it could get rather...bloody.

 _When men used to swinging swords at each other's heads had to compete with nothing but a ball and a stick?_

It could be brutal.

Which was why Gunther was surprised Jester seemed so enthusiastic in his desire to play. Jane could be ...competitive... and often emulated the adult knights, whether or not she meant to. Jester had experienced this first hand (he cringed as he remembered the never-to-be-spoken-of camping incident) and Gunther would have thought Jester had learned his lesson.

Apparently not.

Still, Jane's competitive nature was well known...Gunther had certainly been on the receiving end of it often enough.

Twice today, in fact.

And while he had reservations about engaging Jane in any sport for _fun,_ Gunther couldn't help but feel a small twinge of envy. Nothing serious, _certainly_ nothing worth addressing beyond a passing thought; just the briefest, easily ignored tightening in his chest.

The group of friends always seemed to have fun in their play, and though he didn't really fit in with their circle, - _not that he needed to-_ he couldn't help but appreciate their easy camaraderie.

Gunther was lost in his own thoughts, staring blankly at the courtyard, when Jane noticed him from below.

"Gunther?" she called. "Do you want to play bandyball with us?"

Gunther started in surprise. It was rare for them to invite him to their more _social_ activities. _Ooh._ It was a tempting offer. He certainly had nothing better to occupy his time, but if he accepted, surely they would see how little experience he had with the game. Notice that - _once again-_ Gunther's skills were ...lacking.

 _But still..._

His mouth -his _treacherous_ and _subversive_ mouth- answered before he could properly weigh his options. Perhaps it was habit. Perhaps it was insecurity. In any case, Gunther's response spilled out before he'd had a chance to think about Jane's invitation.

"Do I look like a child to you?" he said. Gunther cringed at his own unnecessarily scornful tone.

 _Ugh._ Why did he have to be so... _standoffish?_

"Oh! Oh! I can answer that one!" quipped Jester.

 _Ah, well._

Gunther sneered at the fool, but Jane ignored the jingle-belled idiot. "Come now, Gunther. It is the king's rest day!"

He considered her offer, this _was_ his chance to be included, to be treated as equal and play (actually _play_ ) with his peers. No expectations, no reward, no one judging his performance from the sidelines. He rolled the idea around for a moment but ultimately shook his head, waving her invitation off. "As you were, children!"

Gunther knew that once started, it was unlikely Jester would be able to resist poking fun at Gunther. Surely his lack of experience in the ways of bandyball -or any games, for that matter- would provide ripe fodder for the fool's jibes.

He could see no reason to _invite_ further teasing.

Gunther meandered backed into the knight's quarters, his thrill of having a rare day off somewhat dampened. He was about to head downstairs when he heard Sir Ivon thumping about in the weapons closet. He was grumbling to himself, complaining under his breath about having to stand guard while he strapped his sword onto his back. Gunther paused, not sure if he should make himself known.

He needn't have bothered. As before, Sir Ivon had noticed his approach.

Two-legged donkey and all that.

Sir Ivon sighed. "No day off for me." He took a deep breath, and finding his sword belt a bit too tight, loosened it another notch -a new one- with a curse. "Are you not going to rise to the challenge of a battle with Jane and the others?"

Gunther wanted to, but…

"No, Sir. I think I shall remain at the castle and catch up on my studies."

Sir Ivon huffed in disbelief and laid a meaty hand on Gunther's shoulder. "Sure ye are, laddie. Ye could always go home, if ye'd rather."

"Thank you, Sir Ivon, but I think I will stay here." Gunther swallowed thickly in an attempt to lessen the lump forming in the back of his throat. "Must stay on top of my reading, as you know."

Hopefully he didn't sound _too_ eager to avoid the trek back to his father's estate.

Home. _Hardly._ The great empty halls and echoing silence. Gunther might have felt like an outsider at the castle, but the manse? It was _empty_ there. _Lonely._ Except...when it wasn't. When his father was home. Gunther shuddered. Yes, between the choices of the manse being occupied versus unoccupied- loneliness was much preferred.

Either way, no thank you. Gunther would much rather stay here, even if he was a bit... isolated... from the rest of the castle's staff. Better to be an outsider among others than to fit in all by yourself.

Besides, here everyone was busy, even when they weren't.

Like today, on their day off.

Sir Ivon gave him an assessing look, and with a quick nod, tromped down the stairs and left Gunther to his own devices.

Gunther waited until his mentor had left the courtyard before sneaking back to watch the game. Home, _indeed._ At least here he had _some_ form of entertainment.

And entertainment he had! It was an astounding game. Heart-stopping. Edge-of-your-seat exciting. Also, a little bit frightening. Alarming, even. _Terrifying._ What kind of dung-brain plays a contact sport with a fire-breathing _dragon?_

Jane. That's who.

And somehow -Gunther had been victim to her crazy schemes himself on occasion, so he understood how such things could happen- she had convinced the other two to play with Dragon as well. Jester's capitulation was expected; his feelings for Gunther's rival were obvious to everyone except Jane herself. But Smithy? Gunther would never have guessed Smithy for the sporting type, nor would he have expected him to be nearly as competitive as Jane herself.

He couldn't look away.

Truly, danger aside, it was fascinating to watch. All three were fleet of foot, nimble, and surprisingly accurate in their shots. Smithy was quickly growing into an alarmingly large slab of a man, but he was nearly as swift as Jester. He was well-balanced and took care not to check his opponents any harder than necessary, but even then-

Gunther cringed as Jane went sliding into the dirt, knocked flat by an accidental shoulder. Gunther held his breath for the barest of moments, but then Jane popped back up, throwing herself into the fray.

Of the three Gunther thought Smithy might have been the toughest competitor, -who could compare with the boy's sheer size?- but surely Jester was a close second. What the fool lacked bulk and power, he made up with cunning and trickery. His tactics were nothing short of genius; dodges and feints, leaping high or scrambling low. Jester may not have had Smithy's strength, but he had speed and often used acrobatics to outpace his opponents.

Jane….well, Jane tried really hard. Gunther had to give her _some_ credit, where credit was due. She was fast as always, but her aim was no better than when she flailed around in her dismal attempt at archery. If nothing else, Gunther could appreciate his rival's effort.

Then there was Dragon.

Gunther would have felt safer lying prone in the path of a stampeding herd of cattle.

 _Three_ herds.

What had they been thinking, inviting a bloody dragon to play bandyball?

There were a few times during their play Gunther found himself wishing he _had_ said yes to Jane's invitation, if only to spare them all the injuries they were _surely_ receiving with Dragon's clumsiness. A little ridicule _had_ to be worth his comrade's limbs and lives. More than once he'd felt his heart leap into his throat -catch high and threaten to be coughed right _out_ \- when Dragon nearly killed one or the other.

It happened often enough Gunther couldn't imagine _why_ they were still playing. _Good lord, why?_

Once Smithy was almost bowled over by a wayward barrel, which then smashed against the castle wall and threw shards all over the courtyard. Then Jester was nearly crushed against the wall by the _entirety_ of Dragon's massive body. And then Jane - _his breath hitched-_ Jane had nearly gotten trampled by Dragon's careless feet, not once, not twice, but _three_ times. THREE!

Gunther knew Dragon would never hurt Jane on purpose, but _bloody hell._ The longer the game went on, the more she faced the very _real_ and very _deadly_ threat of an _accidental_ trampling.

He couldn't help but worry.

After all, with Jane injured, who would keep Gunther challenged?

The game moved quickly, and Gunther found himself on the balcony again, knuckles white as he gripped the railing. So what if he wanted to watch? Who wouldn't? If there was anything such as bloodsport, surely this was it.

Thankfully, it didn't take long before the human members of this… this tragedy-waiting-to-happen were winded, sore, and likely battered. They paused their play, breathing hard, needing to take a break.

Were any of them hurt? Leaning forward, Gunther caught the end of their conversation.

"We are tougher than we look, Dragon." Said Jane.

Gunther sneered. _Tougher?_ She was daft. Well and truly mad. Who was tougher than a giant green lizard which breathed actual fire? No one. No. One. Certainly not some scrawny, freckled girl-child.

He couldn't help himself. "Ha, ha! Been to the wars, have we?"

Jane caught his eye. "You come and play, Gunther," she countered. "Then we will see who is laughing."

 _Nope._

Gunther was many things -and he understood that perhaps not all of them were complimentary- but stupid was not among them.

"No one is dull-witted enough to play bandyball with a dragon." Gunther was the very soul of sarcasm. "Oh wait! My mistake." With a laugh that sounded a little forced (even to himself), Gunther went back inside and down the stairs. If Jane wanted to commit suicide via bandyball, that was her prerogative. Gunther was under no obligation to watch, thank you very much.

* * *

Having missed breakfast, Gunther decided to head towards the kitchen. He could smell lunch from here, which after a moment's consideration made sense. Pepper would not have gotten the day off; the king and castle needed to eat, rest day or no.

Heeding the increasingly strident demands of his stomach, he let his feet carry him toward Pepper's domain. It wasn't until he reached the top of the kitchen stairs, however, that he decided to set himself a little stealth test of his own; could he get in and out, and acquire some sustenance while he was at it, without attracting the attention of one very frazzled cook?

An interesting proposition. And sure to provide him with a sense of accomplishment, even if only privately, should he manage it. After all, Jane had failed miserably in _her_ test earlier.

And besting Jane was always satisfying.

He crept down the steps making -in his own considered opinion- no noise whatsoever, and cast an assessing eye over the steamy kitchens.

Pepper stood with her back to him, chopping away at a large pile of parsnips. She was bent over, humming some tune or another, her braid swinging with the movement of her shoulders. She seemed thoroughly absorbed in her task which would make his own thievery a bit easier.

On the table across the kitchen, cooling under the arched window, sat a tray of absolutely beautiful, golden-brown meat pies.

Even from where he stood, he could smell their heavenly aroma. Gunther inhaled deeply. Carrots, celery, and...was that thyme? Mmm...yes.

Checking first to make sure Pepper was still occupied, Gunther dropped to the floor and scurried to the middle of the room. He stopped against her butcher's block, pulling his knees up to his chest, pressing his back against the wood. Had she heard him?

Gunther listened carefully. _No._ The quick _thunkthunkthunkthunk_ of her knife continued, uninterrupted. Peeking around the corner, he saw she was still hunched over, pausing only to move the sliced parsnips off her workspace before resuming her slicing.

He rolled forward in a neat somersault, then pulling himself one elbow over another, crawled carefully through the rushes. Gunther concentrated on keeping his movements low, controlled. _Stealthy._ One paving stone at a time, Gunther made his way over to the table where the pies cooled. Reaching the table, he brought his feet in, rising up to a crouch.

Pepper continued her chopping, oblivious to his presence.

Slowly, steadily, with the stealth of a well-fed stable cat, Gunther stood, his eyes fixed on Pepper's swinging braid. Confident she was unaware of his presence, Gunther turned and inhaled the delicious smells wafting off the newly-baked meat pies. They were perfectly done. The crusts were uniform, crispy, and the most inviting, delicious golden brown.

Pepper -brilliant cook that she was- had pricked the tops with her knife, slicing and molding, creating a cheery pattern with the twisted dough. On several of these the juices had bubbled out, caramelizing on the delicate crusts to create the most tempting batch of meat pies Gunther had ever laid eyes on.

Truly, Pepper was an artiste.

Gunther chose the plumpest pie and brought it up to his nose, relishing the delectable scent. It was still warm, steaming pleasantly in his hand, and his mouth watered in anticipation. He opened his mouth, ready to savor the fruits of Pepper's labor when-

 _BONK!_

Something hard cracked against the back of his head.

Startled, Gunther turned to look at Pepper. She was still facing away from him, leaning over her chopping block making short work of a pile of parsnips, but her free hand was extended behind her, raised as though she had… thrown something?

Gunther looked around, his head throbbing.

Her spoon, the heavy wooden one she used to stir vats of stew and chase off the prince, lay at his feet.

Had she- had she _flung_ it at him?

Launched the unwieldy utensil and actually _hit him_ -without even looking?

Gunther shook his head, trying to clear his vision. He was lucky not to have been brained by the heavy thing.

"Those are for dinner, Gunther," she said without turning. "Put. It. Back."

Surprised at being caught, and more than a little frightened by Pepper's uncanny aim, Gunther put the pie down.

 _So much for stealth._

Pepper lowered her hand, setting down her knife and scooping up the batch of finished vegetables, setting them in the waiting bowl. "Good day, Gunther."

Gunther wondered if her aim was as accurate with the kitchen knife. It gleamed dully in the light of the fire.

 _There_ was a thought.

Not wanting to find out, Gunther scurried away for less dangerous realms.

* * *

Stepping up into the kitchen garden, Gunther spied the Lady in Waiting, walking with the young prince and princess.

Gunther's head throbbed dully. He raised his head to rub at where Pepper's spoon had hit him; only to find a knot was forming beneath his hair.

Artiste or not, Pepper was a bit scary.

Gunther made note not to sneak about in her domain again.

In any case, as Gunter's stealth was _clearly_ in need of further polishing, he decided the lady and royals would make excellent marks on which to practice.

They were simple enough to shadow. Lady Turnkey strode briskly about the castle grounds, with no apparent destination in mind. Occasionally she would stop to lecture about a variety of topics, none of which were interesting or even vaguely educational. Neither prince nor princess seemed even slightly attentive, and pulled faces behind her back.

Gunther wondered what the point of the tour was. What lesson was she hoping to impart? Certainly nothing Lady Turnkey said was new information; the little majesties _lived_ here. They were quite familiar with the purpose of the battlements, the history of the tapestries, the varieties in the garden, the court proceedings in the throne room.

It wasn't until they passed through the formal gardens that Gunther understood. Just as the Lady in Waiting was about to enter the royal gardens, she spied the king, napping in his chair. She hissed through her teeth, flinching. Thankfully, the king did not stir. With a curtsy to Sir Ivon, she spun on her heel and led the royal children into the throne room, where she resumed her lecture.

Lady Turnkey had not been granted a rest day. Like Sir Ivon and Pepper, she still had her own duties to fulfill: duties which appeared to include keeping the young royals busy in a manner which prevented them from bothering their father.

Gunther wished her luck.

Babysitting the royals was his _least_ favorite task.

Still, they were easy quarry, with all the noise they made. Tromping through the castle, Lady Turnkey's voice droning on and on. It was almost too easy- though Gunther thought perhaps Lavina had spied him at one point; or at least suspected they were being stalked. Several times she looked behind their small party, searching for whatever had caught her interest until an impatient Lady Turnkey tugged on her hand.

She hadn't seen him though, Gunther was sure. Otherwise, she would have called him out, wouldn't she?

Deciding to quit while he was ahead, Gunther waited until they had moved through the throne room and into the portrait gallery before slinking inside. He ducked low and peeked around the corner. The throne room was empty. No maids, no castle guards. Perhaps the king had bade everyone leave on his day of rest?

Well, wasn't _this_ an interesting turn?

With a final check to ensure the king was still napping in the garden, Gunther mounted the dais and plopped down on the taller of the two thrones.

He crossed his legs, placing his hands daintily on his knees. "Shall I be _queen_?" he cooed.

It suddenly occurred to Gunther that his buttocks were currently occupying the same space where the queen usually rested her lovely, genteel rear. Gunther jumped up, as if burned.

Not that Gunther _ever_ thought of something so _inappropriate_ as the queen's rear.

Of course not. Never.

It would be _most_ improper to notice the delicate sway of the queen's hips as she floated by. Gunther felt a flush of heat travel up his neck, his pants feeling oddly...restrictive.

Eager to redirect his thoughts, Gunther moved to the king's throne.

"No!" his voice cracked a bit, "I shall take my place as king!"

Yes, that was _much_ better.

Or, at least, less embarrassing.

 _Being_ king, and a rather magnificent and imposing king at that, Gunther felt that his domain was long overdue for a few policy changes. As such, it was his royal duty, indeed his _solemn obligation_ , to issue a number of proclamations.

Firstly, -that was a royal word, was it not?- Jester and all jingle-bell-related attire would be henceforth banished from the kingdom, post haste. No more jokes, no more taunts, no more silly riddles or high-brow tomfoolery. This sentence would be enforced immediately. Though as a wise and _just_ king, Gunther would consider remanding said proclamation if Jester swore fealty to Gunther as his new king, accepted a new position as the king's _personal_ valet, and then immediately took a vow of silence.

Kindness was a necessary virtue for a royal.

Second, Pepper's recipe would be named as the official meat pie recipe for the kingdom. The kitchen staff were to keep one cooling in the window, awaiting his royal pleasure, at all times.

Third, the kingdom would fund the raising of a mighty army of...of...farm animals! They would be outfitted with Smithy's best armor, and trained by Jane herself. Yes. Pig would be his finest general.

Finally, as an addendum to his third proclamation, all annoying, know-it-all, bushy-haired girls were to be expelled from knight training forthwi-

Gunther stopped, reconsidering his latest pronouncement.

On second thought, he wouldn't be issuing that one, after all.

A king was allowed to be magnanimous, was he not?

Though it was decided all bushy-headed girls _would_ have to bow _twice_ when he approached. Jane would balk -she was prideful for a girl- but as his subject, she would be honor-bound to obey. Gunther could almost hear her argument.

"My decision is always final! You will obey your sovereign!"

Gunther started, surprised, then laughed at his own silliness. He hadn't meant to say that last part out loud.

Completely swept up in his play, Gunther had not realized how much time had passed. Not wanting to press his luck, he stood up.

" _Aaaand_ back to the real world." Gunther stretched - _who knew the throne was so uncomfortable?-_ and decided to go watch the rest of the staff's game.

Assuming they were still alive.

With one more stretch and pop, Gunther turned to leave when he spied the king's crown. _The crown._ It rested casually on the back of throne, slung there, forgotten. Discarded like an old farm hat.

Gunther peeked out to where the king still slumped in the garden, napping. _Could he?_

"No." His voice was firm. "I have broken castle protocol enough already." Gunther glanced up to where the crown dangled tantalizingly. "Gunther, you _cannot."_

He could not. Could. Not.

But- but- Oh how it glowed golden in the afternoon light. _Were those? Yes. It was encrusted with actual_ rubies! Unbidden, his feet carried him closer. Gunther gazed at it longingly. Surely no one would know?

"Just for a royal moment."

Gunther put the crown on his head, being careful not to scrape it across the knot on the back of his head.

Oh. _Oh._ That was nice.

It felt… empowering.

Giggling, Gunther thrust out his arm. "BOW DOWN BEFORE YOUR RULER!" he ordered in his deepest, most _imperiously_ commanding voice.

Gunther shivered.

Yes.

 _Yes._

It was good, _so very, very good,_ to be king.

But alas, enough was enough, and as much fun as the day had been, Gunther had other duties.

Royally decreed day off or no.

Suddenly Gunther heard the sound of approaching voices. Lady Turnkey returning with the children.

Gunther ducked behind the throne and pushed at the edges of the crown. It was one thing to be up on the royal dias without permission, and another to be sitting on the throne. But to be caught wearing the king's very own crown? To be discovered by The Lady in Waiting herself, with the symbol of the kingdom's power and the seat of His Majesty, King Caradoc still perched upon his head?

No, no thank you.

The crown would not budge.

Gunther again pushed at the crown, careful not to bend any of the decorative tines. It didn't move an inch, but why?

Gunther stifled a groan, feeling around in his hair. His head, especially the area immediately surrounding the bump on his head, had swollen around the restricting edges of the crown.

He tried again, but to no avail. The more he pushed against the tender flesh, the more the skin puffed out, locking the crown in place.

Panic threatened to flair.

He needed help. But who?

Jester? He appreciated a good joke. Though Gunther would never hear the end of this. Pepper? No. She'd probably scold him and drag him by the ear to the king. Jane? Please... _please_ not Jane. Smithy? There was an idea. Smithy would be unlikely to gossip, _and_ he had the tools for metalwork.

Smithy it was, then.

After listening to make sure the great hall was again empty, Gunther peeked around the throne. Picking his way carefully down the stairs and through the garden, Gunther managed to avoid the notice of a pouting Sir Ivon. Perhaps today's activities -no matter how they had ended up- had helped improve his stealthiness?

Sir Ivon _did_ say necessity was the mother of invention.

Creeping below the hedgerow, Gunther moved as quickly and quietly as possible without attracting attention, nearly sprinting through the kitchen garden before ducking into the practice yard.

He'd almost made it, Smithy's forge was in sight, when Gunther's foot rolled over a- he looked down- a ball?

"Huh?"

The bandyball?

 _Caught._

Gunther turned to see Jane, Smithy, Rake, Dragon, _and_ Jester looking at him expectantly.

 _Maggots._

So much for being stealthy. He'd been apprehended by nearly the entire castle!

Jane cocked her head to the side, her eyes flickering from his face to the crown. "Er, Gunther," she began, "when I told you to stop acting like royalty-"

"I need help!" Gunther cut off whatever witticism she was about to impart. "The king's crown is stuck."

"Tell us how later." She cupped her chin as she searched for a solution. "We need to get it back before his majesty notices. Smithy?"

Smithy didn't hesitate, grabbing Gunther's arm and pulling him to the forge. "Come on Gunther," he rolled his eyes, "a few blows from my hammer should do it."

 _They would help!_ Gunther nearly sagged with relief, then tensed as his mind caught up with Smithy's words.

"Use your horse cart mallet!" called Jester.

Gunther swallowed thickly, "You are jesting….right?" Smithy smiled, but didn't respond.

Behind him, Jane smothered a giggle.

* * *

As it turned out, Smithy _was_ jesting.

Three spoonfuls of lard and a boothorn later, Smithy handed the newly-greased crown off to Jane, only to have Jester pluck it from her fingers.

"I shall take that, I think." He shrugged at Jane's cross look, waving her off. He produced a colorful handkerchief and scrubbed at the greasy metal. "As we saw today, neither of you are capable of anything resembling stealth. Better I return it than either of you get caught." With a quick eye to the setting sun, Jester secured the crown under his doublet, turned with a little hop, and set out for the throne room.

Gunther wished him the best of luck. Murmuring an embarrassed thanks to Smithy, Gunther made ready to leave. Now that the immediate danger had passed, Gunther felt his humiliation most keenly. The day had been nothing short of mortifying. Called out by Sir Ivon, his - _admittedly-_ poor behavior when asked to play by the others, getting caught by a _deceptively_ observant Pepper who apparently possessed a wicked throwing arm, and then having to admit to the entire staff he'd not only taken the king's crown- but managed to get it stuck on his head.

Nearly everyone had seen. _Everyone._ Surely his face and neck were bright red.

Gunther raised a hand to smooth the hair around the still-present bump. His fingers were met with fatty lumps of lard. A final, odiferous insult.

Noticing his discomfort, Jane stopped him.

"Gunther, if you please. You would not be the first to," she cleared her throat, "have a _mishap_ pretending to be nobility."

She gave him a small smile which Gunther found confusing. Technically, Jane _was_ nobility so what had she- ? It took a moment before he caught on. Behind her, Smithy and Rake both looked sheepish.

"Jester, too." She whispered. She smiled again, stepping back. "Join us for dinner?" She asked.

"Yes," said Smithy, "I should very much like to hear about your adventures. Perhaps we have stories to trade? Though," he coughed, "considering your injuries, yours did seem more dangerous than our own."

Dinner? With the rest of the castle denizens? That did sound appealing- certainly better than eating alone at home.

Heart lighter than it had felt in months, Gunther followed them to the kitchen and took a place at the rough table. After a few minutes Jester joined them, a skip in his step. At Jane's questioning look, the fool assured them the crown had been returned to its rightful ruler, with no one the wiser.

No one, except for everyone gathered, of course.

Though if Jane were to believed, Gunther was in no danger of being outed to Sir Ivon or the king.

* * *

The group sat chatting amicably long after dinner had been cleared away. Gunther yawned, rest day or not, he was exhausted.

Jane leaned back, laughing. "So Gunther, how did it feel to be king today?"

"Did you declare war on any other kingdoms?" asked Jester, elbowing him in the ribs.

"Make any new laws?" queried Smithy.

"Find yourself a queen?" Pepper questioned as she emerged from the kitchen.

Gunther blushed at that.

"Name your crowning achievement!" demanded Jane.

Gunther paused, unsure which question to answer first. Instead he stood, striking his best, most _kingly_ pose. "I, King Gunther the First, will announce the last act of my reign."

"What is it, your majestic majesty?" laughed Jane.

Gunther swirled an imperious finger in the air. "I hereby ban myself from ever being king again!"

"Here! Here!" They chimed as one.

Gunther bowed, taking his leave-in the most dignified, royal fashion. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Gunther." replied Jane, dipping her own head in goodbye. "I hope next rest day, you will play with us instead?"

Smiling in agreement - _bandyball did seem safer to his person, did it not?-_ Gunther left for home.


	9. Frayed Edges

All of Gunther hurt.

His arms, his shoulders, his thighs and calves, his feet, his lower back. All throbbed and burned in united protest with every exhausted pulse of his heart. Hell, even his arse hurt. He'd learned that unfortunate little tidbit the last time they'd stopped for a break. The overworked flesh was tender to the touch, which made _any_ attempt at resting a rather sensitive and tricky affair.

Sir Theodore had led all of the squires on a rather _punishing_ six-day march. Through the rocky terrain forest, up and around the mountain via forgotten game trails and switchbacks, returning through a series of of steep hills thick with thorny brush, only to turn around and do it all again in reverse.

It was quite honestly, uphill, both ways.

There were times Gunther wasn't sure he'd be able to keep up. Moments he had been certain that watery feeling in his limbs would override his force of will and he would be finished. That he would take a step only to find the muscle had not fired as expected, and that blur of greenery was really the ground rushing up to meet him.

It had been a near thing several times; twice he'd actually stumbled. It was only thanks to his superior footwork had he managed to catch himself before sprawling into the dirt.

The _first_ time had been shortly after they left the castle. Gunther'd had yet to find his stride and a small misstep had caused him to fly _most_ ungracefully into a tree. Thankfully no one had seen him -or at least was unkind enough to laugh directly at his folly- but the rough bark had left a stinging reminder high up on his arm.

The _second_ time had been at the very end of the first day, right before they were to stop and make camp for the night. Truthfully, Gunther had not been paying attention. He had been solely focused on his own labored breathing when his boot had caught on a rock, sending him careening forward. He supposed from an outside perspective it was probably comical: Gunther tripping over his own feet, his arms pinwheeling wildly as he staggered across the trail, knocking into one boy, then another. Unfortunately, he had not been quick to regain his footing -and in his frantic attempt to right himself- had nearly bowled over Jane.

Jane had caught herself, quickly regaining her balance, then had _whirled_ around to face Gunther. She'd raised her upper lip into a sneer, bared her teeth, and -he was sure he hadn't imagined it- growled a little. Not the deep rumbling you might hear from one of the king's hounds, but the unsettling noise of nails raking over a metal shield or the harsh snarl you might hear from a injured lynx or wildcat.

 _Eek._

Gunther certainly hadn't _meant_ to knock into her like that, and had even started to apologize between gulps of air, but her withering look of utter disdain and contempt had stilled the words before he'd had the chance to fully form them.

She had been a little frightening.

Well, Gunther had neither the time nor the energy for whatever her problem was. He decided if she wasn't going to be polite, then he was under no obligation to be polite back. Gunther closed his mouth without the barest of 'sorrys', and after finding his own footing, ran to catch up the boys in front of him. The extra effort had nearly knocked him flat with the exertion, but it had been worth it, to leave her in his dust.

Had she actually _growled_ at him?

Honestly.

It did bother him though, her anger. He hadn't seen Jane all day, so he wasn't sure what he had done to earn such _devastating_ ire. They'd barely had the chance to acknowledge the other's existence throughout the day's march; neither had the breath to say hello, nevermind _bicker_. It rankled, and he worried it like a cut in his mouth, but no matter how hard he tried, Gunther wasn't able to pinpoint just when he'd angered her so grievously.

Other than the incident of nearly knocking her down.

Well, that was Jane he supposed. He certainly collided with her often enough at practice. You'd think she'd be used to it by now.

As competitive as she was, she was probably mad that _he_ was able to keep up with the older boys, when _she_ had been trailing behind all morning. Perhaps it was wrong to be spiteful, to fall into the same combative pattern they always did. He certainly wasn't _proud_ of his feelings, but it didn't change the fact that Gunther had kept up with the older squires while she had not.

Unfortunately, several of the younger squires had not been so lucky. Smaller, inexperienced, newly inducted into Sir Theodore's class - they had not been prepared for the sheer level of exertion the march required. Gunther _vaguely_ recalled having problems with some of Sir Theodore's exercises when he had first started, but _surely_ he hadn't been as terrible as this sorry lot.

He _definitely_ hadn't whined or complained half so much.

One by one the unfortunate lads fell to the hard-packed dirt of the trail, exhausted and unable to move. A few of the more stout-hearted boys managed to force themselves back up, wobbling on shaky legs to follow after; but not nearly as many who had fallen and stayed down, crying. Those that could not recover sat in the dirt, disgraced, waiting until they could be retrieved by the knights on horseback which shadowed the troop.

 _How embarrassing._

Gunther had _no_ intention of being shamed thusly.

Jane had done well enough, despite her plodding pace and poor attitude. With the exception of her run-in with Gunther, she'd spent much of the march rather quiet, which Gunther considered, actually, a lovely change of pace.

It was a rare day that wasn't narrated by the irritatingly chipper chatter of his partner.

A few times, during water breaks or when they stopped for a quick meal of dried meat and cheese, Gunther had seen her kneading her lower back and the tops of her thighs with a pained expression on her face. He hadn't felt any sympathy for her: not when his body was its own strident chorus of aches and complaints.

If she was hurting, it was her own fault. Despite being three or more years younger than the older squires -and barely a year older than the new boys- she had _insisted_ on lugging the full pack that Gunther and the rest of their class carried. She'd even made a scene before they'd left the castle, demanding she be treated equally, certain she could manage the extra weight.

And she'd gotten her wish. Her stubborn insistence meant her pack weighed the same as everyone else in the older training class; boys who outweighed her by fifty pounds or more. Their burdens were a full stone heavier than those of the younger squires, boys who were more similar to Jane in height and weight, because the older ones had been tasked with carrying the younger set's water and weaponry.

It was ridiculous, really. Gunther was well aware she usually _could_ manage the same as the older boys. Hadn't she proved such time and again?

But why would she _want_ to?

Girls were strange.

Jane could pretend to be a boy if she wanted, that was fine with him. She could train, and run, and hit, and spit, and curse to her heart's content and it was no skin off his teeth. But no matter how much she tried to deny it, Jane was _-and always would be-_ a smaller, weaker member of the opposite sex. Equality aside, in the end she was still just a skinny, chicken-legged girl. Even if she was loath to admit it.

She'd felt the consequences though. Jane's pace had been _far_ slower than normal, dropping behind Gunther and their group, her complexion pale and sweaty with her exertion.

Even Sir Theodore had seen her flagging, noticed her dragging steps and sickly mein. On the second day, during the contained chaos of the mid-morning water break, Gunther had watched as Sir Theodore discreetly pulled Jane aside and offered to reduce her load.

Gunther hadn't been _eavesdropping,_ not exactly, such a thing was below him. Nevertheless with the barest minimum of concentration he'd _happened_ overhear Sir Theodore inquire after her health and offer to carry her share of the water.

But Jane -being Jane- had of course refused. Rather vehemently so, based on her scowl and vexed response. Gunther hadn't _heard_ her hissed reply, but he _had_ seen the old knight pull back in distressed, uncomfortable surprise. Sir Theodore cleared his throat before trying again- a pointless endeavor to be sure- only to be summarily dismissed, based on the slightly chagrined look on his face when he'd walked away, hands thrown up in defeat.

Jane was _far_ too proud.

She had suffered for it, too. The day's march saw her fall further and further behind their own group. After one particularly brutal stretch of trail Gunther realized he hadn't seen Jane for at least an hour, so he dropped back to the younger boys, wondering if she had given up and plopped down in the trail to be collected by the knights bringing up the rear.

He needn't have worried.

Jane was fine -or at any rate, she was _there_ \- plodding along with steady, dogged determination.

Gunther had wanted to tease her- poke at her ego with some witty insult to her snail-like pace- but something warned him off. Maybe it was the set of her shoulders or the hard glint in her eye, but suddenly he was reminded of when he'd tripped and nearly knocked her down. Not wanting a repeat, he'd spun on his heel and made his way back to the front of the group.

Better safe than sorry.

Still, later when they'd stopped for lunch Gunther couldn't help but seek her out. A quick scan of their group had found Jane sitting against a tree, her pack laying discarded in the dirt. Her eyes had been closed and she'd had a distressed crease between her brows. Instead of eating like the other squires, she'd been ignoring her rations, her arms tightly wrapped around her middle.

Gunther'd _really_ hoped she wasn't sick. Their troop was struggling enough as it was; the last thing they needed this far from the castle was an outbreak of the stomach flu. Gunther _hated_ throwing up.

 _Or -_ he shuddered- _worse._

She must not have been though, or at least hadn't been contagious. Gunther'd noticed Sir Theodore watching her throughout the day, but he'd made no further attempt to offer aid. Gunther was certain that if Jane _had_ been sick, her mentor would have sent her directly home- vehement protests or not.

* * *

On the fourth day, the morning after they had turned around to retrace their steps back through the thorn-covered hills, the strap on Gunther's pack snagged on a jagged bit of undergrowth.

Everyone was tired, sore, and happy to complain about the prospect of having to work their way back the way they had come when the castle -clearly visible from their vantage point- was so close. Gunther himself had been happy to gripe with the others, and had been trading grumbles with another squire when the strap of his pack caught on a branch. The force of his forward momentum whirled him around and, before he could right himself, ripped the bottom portion of the strap free of its stitches.

Fortunately, they stopped a short while later, and Gunther was able to pull out his needle and thread. Sir Theodore was a stickler about keeping one's armor and gear in good repair, so Gunther was able to stitch it back together before they set out again.

 _Unfortunately,_ needlework had never been Gunther's strong suit, and the strap ripped again within the hour.

It was a long bruising march to their next stopping point with his bag bashing and banging against his side. When they stopped to eat Gunther tacked the strap as well as he could in the short time he had, but his workmanship was _at best,_ substandard. It wasn't long before the strap tore yet again; his haphazard stitches pulling the damaged canvas free in a loud _riiiip!_

 _Outstanding._

Now he had a broken pack _with_ a hole.

Gunther couldn't just _ignore_ the broken bit of gear. He wasn't in danger of anything falling out through the hole, but without both straps over his shoulders, the pack was unbalanced. The weight pulled his neck and shoulders to the side and the strap chafed his skin with every step. It made walking an awkward, laborious affair, and made his lower back ache and throb.

Gunther found himself walking more and more slowly,, falling further behind his own group until they were almost out of sight. He had to jog to catch back up, a bumbling affair which earned him an unreadable look from Jane.

He ignored her, rushing past before she could sting him with her barbed tongue.

It wasn't until later, after they'd finished their spartan meal, that she managed to corner him.

"Gunther, I know there are some gaps in your education, but I never expected you to be quite so terrible at armor repair." she said snidely. "Have you not practiced?"

She'd been silent this whole trek and _now_ she wanted to trade insults? Did she not see he was busy?

"No," he answered, peevishly. "I try not to waste my time on useless pursuits."

Jane made a sound of disgust and rolled her eyes. "Well based on your current need for a well-placed needle and thread, and your obvious lack of skill, I would not exactly call it useless."

"And you think you can do better?" he scoffed.

Jane crossed her arms and leaned back, smirking. The gesture seemed...familiar. "I _know_ I can."

 _Oh, wasn't she just in a mood?_

" _So_ superior." Gunther turned his attention back to the… the _mess_ in his lap. He pushed the needle through the thick fabric, jabbing his finger in the process. He hissed and stuck it in his mouth. "And here I thought you rejected all things feminine to roll around in the dirt with us useless boys. Do not tell me you secretly enjoy needlework."

Jane pulled a face. "Hardly. I have spent a lifetime avoiding my mother and her attempts to impart womanly knowledge."

Gunther resumed his work. "Then what makes you so certain that you can do better than me?"

"I did not say I was always _successful_ at avoiding my mother." She leaned forward, imperiously examining his work. "You should not place your stitch there."

Gunther ignored her instruction. "Ah, yes. I had quite forgotten how unnaturally loud you are when are trying to be quiet."

She released a long-suffering, beleaguered sigh. "You are being a prat, Gunther Breech."

"Calling names now, are we?" Gunther yanked at the needle, pulling the thread tight. "What happened to dung brain?"

Jane winced as the canvas of his pack creaked warningly. "I am trying to help you, Gunther."

"Is that what you are doing?" He was quickly losing patience with his task, and was _not_ in the mood to trade jibes. "Because it _feels_ like you just came over here to ruin what has already been a rather poor day."

Jane watched in critical silence while he continued his stitching. Well, _almost_ silence - but Gunther was deeply familiar with his partner and could hear the small but disapproving - actually, no, the _condescending_ \- sounds she was making at the back of her throat. It set his teeth on edge.

"I do not need your help, Jane," he said flatly.

"I would beg to differ." She _tsked_ when he tugged at the canvas. The fabric jerked under his ministrations, ripping further as he tried to tighten the stitch. It made a protesting noise that sounded suspiciously like a rip. "You are going to _ruin_ it. If you are are _lucky_ you will end up with a hole- but the more I watch you the more likely it seems you are going to rip the whole bottom out."

Gunther pulled again, causing another rip. "I do not need your help, Jane," he repeated.

"You do," she insisted, huffing an errant curl out of her eyes.

"Like you are one to talk."

"And just what do you mean by that, bog weevil?"

He raised his head to give her a hard stare. "You have been _nothing_ but nasty to everyone around you since we left the castle." She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off. "I do not know if you are hurt or sick or _something_ this whole trip, but _YOU_ have been _nasty._ "

"I have not."

"Absolutely, you have. I seem to recall you nearly biting off Sir Theodore's head when he offered to lighten your load."

Jane tilted her chin up, her face taking on that mulish expression that sometimes made him want to _shake_ her. "I do not need to be coddled."

"I very much doubt Sir Theodore has any coddling in his nature. If you are sick, we are here to help."

"I-" She turned an alarming shade of red. "I am not sick."

"Then you should stop being such a bear."

Jane sat for a moment, clearly fuming, trying - if he knew her, and he did - to frame a cutting enough reply. Eventually she opened her mouth, only to close it a second later with a snap.

Gunther sighed, not wishing to argue further. "Truly Jane, can you not tell me what is wrong?"

He wouldn't have thought it possible, but she managed to turn an even _deeper_ shade of crimson. The blush swallowed her freckles, making them disappear completely.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Finally, Jane cleared her throat. "You are right, Gunther. I have been feeling a bit…" she searched for the right words. "Under the weather." She shifted restlessly. Gunther wondered if her stomach was still paining her.

"There is no excuse for my behavior. I…" she paused, seeming momentarily conflicted. Gunther had the feeling that she would really have preferred to hang on to… her righteous anger or whatever it was that she'd been carrying around since the first day of this miserable excursion- but with what he recognized as a genuine effort, she rose above it. "I should not have snapped at you earlier," she said quietly, "and perhaps I should have considered Sir Theodore's offer."

"You did not snap, so much as growled like a wildcat and looked ready to claw my eyes out."

"I did not." She seemed unconvinced, though, even to herself.

Gunther gave her his most withering stare.

It took a moment, but she eventually caved. Jane had never been a good liar, even to herself. "Alright, perhaps I did." She cleared her throat. "I apologize."

"Apology accepted."

"Then you will let me help fix your pack?" she gestured to the tattered canvas. "You really _are_ going to ruin it."

"Are you going to allow Sir Theodore or me to carry some of your gear until you feel better?" Jane scowled at his question, clearly working up another argument. "Because I do believe it would be _far_ less work for us to pack your tent or water, instead of carrying _you._ " Gunther smirked. "Though I would very much enjoy seeing you carried home on horseback. I could tease you about that _forever_."

Jane fidgeted. "Alright," she conceded. "But only this one time."

Gunther groaned at her stubbornness, but dutifully handed his pack over. "Thank you, Jane. I appreciate your help."

She gave him a small smile. "You are most welcome." She pulled a large knife from her own bag and set about cutting a square of canvas from the tarp of her tent. "But I must insist I be treated the same as the the other squires."

Gunther rolled his own eyes in response to her demand, but remained silent as he watched her work. Her nimble fingers made short work of the broken strap, quickly patching the damaged fabric before anchoring it securely. She even spent a few minutes tacking the _other_ strap which had started to pull loose with his rough treatment.

Gunther would have never thought to reinforce the canvas, he would have just kept stitching the ripped edges over and over. Jane was _far_ more dexterous than he was, and he didn't think it was just her mother's forced lessons. Jane _was_ different, whether or not she wanted to admit it. But...if she wanted to be treated the same -even to her own detriment- he would be happy to oblige her.


	10. Pride and Punishment

Gunther hunkered down by the base of the catapult and pretended to inspect the bolts on the wheel. There was nothing wrong with the bolts, he had inspected them just yesterday, and Gunther knew they were in no danger of shaking loose.

No, Gunther was eavesdropping, a most distasteful and dishonorable pastime, made doubly so as he was doing it at the command of his father.

Hadn't he done enough? Made enough poor choices and hurt the very people he was _supposed_ to protect?

This _was_ all his fault. Every last awful bit. He'd let his desire to best Jane and Dragon override his common sense and - he could feel the tears threatening - his need to please his father destroy what little honor he had earned.

" _I am proud of you, boy."_

 _Ugh_ , it made him sick - actually and truly physically ill - to think of it. His head pounded, his chest felt hollow, and nausea churned and roiled deep in his gut.

How could he be so ridiculously and irritatingly naive? To fall into his father's trap yet _again_ , to let himself be _used_ as a pawn in another one of his father's games? He was so stupid and trusting.

He knew better. _Knew_ better.

Magnus loved no one but himself. He'd seen Gunther's weakness - his pathetically desperate need for validation - and twisted it into yet another scheme which had nearly cost Dragon _his_ home and Jane _her_ life.

But for what end?

Gunther would never believe his father's assertion that Dragon's expulsion was for the _good of the kingdom_ \- it was weak and vague reasoning, at best. No, no. Somehow Magnus planned to profit from the situation. How, Gunther had no earthly idea, but it could not be something as simple as impugned honor or a burnt cart.

He might not know what Magnus _actually_ had planned, but knowing his father, it would not be pleasant.

And it would be his fault.

Just like everything - _everything_ \- that had happened today was Gunther's fault. The burned garden, the loss of _three_ crop fields, Dragon being banished from the kingdom.

Hell, Gunther had almost _killed_ Jane.

Bile threatened to rise again.

His father might have bade him to launch the horrid flowers into the air, but he - _Gunther_ \- had actually done it. _He'd_ been the one to pull the cord. The guilt and the shame were nearly overwhelming. To think he had actually felt a rush of pride when the flowers had found their mark, only for it to disappear _completely_ \- washed away in a deluge of absolute horror - as Jane and Dragon fell from the sky, plummeting to the ground.

He couldn't even begin to describe the tumult of emotions he'd experienced in those brief minutes. The horror at seeing them fall, the cold dread as they'd lain unmoving in the tall weeds, the sudden swamp of relief he'd felt when she'd popped up out of the flowers unharmed. And the bright new surge of fear as Dragon had begun sneezing uncontrollably and Jane had needed to run for her life.

It had been heart-stoppingly _terrifying._

And yet he was still here, fiddling with the catapult, listening in on Jane and Dragon's conversation because Magnus had ordered him to.

"This is madness," declared Dragon. "I would never burn the crops. Eat them perhaps, but I would never burn them." He was incredulous at the accusation.

Jane worked to calm him, only to be cut short. "It is the king's decree, Dragon-"

"Well he can decree and decry all he wants." Dragon said angrily. "I am a dragon, not one of his short-life subjects."

Dragon was quite right. The lizard was not subject to the king's commands, nor did he have any duty to Kippernia… but Jane did.

As did Gunther himself.

Gunther stood up from his crouched position and stared blankly into the bucket of the catapult. It was blackened, stained dark with the tar's residue. He reached out to touch the sticky substance, rolling it thoughtfully between his fingers.

Was this what he looked like on the inside?

He did not want it to be.

Decision made, he took a deep breath and sauntered over to where Jane argued with Dragon. Slapping on the smarmiest smile in his repertoire, Gunther caught her attention.

"I know your game, Jane."

* * *

"Gunther, wait."

Gunther's shoulders slumped. He'd known Jane would seek him out, but Gunther had already had a _very_ awkward conversation with Sir Ivon, and really did not fancy a repeat. Their conversation had been _so unbearably_ uncomfortable, Sir Ivon lapsing into his thickest, most indecipherable brogue, Gunther couldn't even say what exactly they _had_ discussed. He _did_ know Sir Ivon was not angry with him - there had even been a horrifying moment when he'd been sure his mentor was going to hug him - but Gunther understood he would not be be assigned any additional duties for his _supposed_ crime.

No one, it seemed, had believed his lie.

Still, he had hoped to slink off unnoticed. He should have realized Jane would _never_ let him slip away without providing _some_ sort of explanation for his behavior. "I am in a hurry, Jane. My father is no doubt displeased with my actions and will not like paying reparations to the farmer for the lost crops. It is better if I do not anger him further." He took a step, ready to make his escape.

"If you would… just hold for a moment?" She lifted one hand hesitantly, as if to stop him. "It will not take long, I promise."

He _could_ just go. He _should_ just go; ignore her entreaties and beg his leave to make the trek home to face his father's wrath.

Jane pressed her lips together, and tried again. " _Please_ , Gunther."

It was the please which did it. Not so much the entreaty itself - Jane was always unfailingly polite, even when hurling insults - but her _tone._ She wasn't just being curious, or nosey, or displaying the oddly endearing sense of honor which often resulted in her chasing down some problem and worrying at it like a dog with a bone. No. The _please_ had been fraught with uncertainty, and tinged with what sounded like genuine worry.

He could almost imagine she cared.

Whatever it was, it gave him pause. He took a deep breath and turned so that he faced her directly. "Yes, Jane?"

She let out the breath she'd been holding. "Could you tell me what all that was about?"

"I do not understand." Maybe if he affected bewilderment, played daft and dumb, she would leave it alone. Who was he kidding? Jane _knew_ he wasn't stupid - even if she regularly proclaimed otherwise - and in the time he had known her, had never shown any propensity for leaving well enough alone.

"Why, Gunther, why did you _do_ that?"

Of course. She was never one to mince words or dance about. Jane, as always, drove straight to the heart of the matter. On any other day, he might have respected her ability to be so forthright. Today, though? Gunther did not appreciate it in the least.

"I am expected home, Jane." He said, irritated. "I do not have time to play guessing games. Do _what?"_

Her mouth pulled down in a frown. "Are you being thick on purpose? Do…" her hands gestured helplessly as she searched for the right words, " _all_ of it. Why, why did you help me, and then, if it really was your father, why did you defend _him_ \- just, Gunther, why?!"

Gunther took a deep breath before answering. "I do not know what you are talking about Jane. It happened just like I said."

She folded her arms across her chest, staring hard at his face. "Is that so."

He tugged at his sleeves and smoothed his tunic before meeting her eyes. "Yes," he said flatly.

"You set the fields _afire_ just to see what a battle looks like." It wasn't a question. She practically _oozed_ disbelief.

Gunther held her gaze and affected his haughtiest tone. "Did I not say so, to Sir Theodore, the king, and everyone?"

Jane was unimpressed. "You most certainly did. And they might - _might_ \- even believe such rubbish. But I do not."

Well, Sir Ivon certainly had not - which meant Sir Theodore had not. King Caradoc, the same man who had banished Dragon over a sneezing fit, had been surprisingly unruffled by Gunther's confession. His lack of censure -beyond the reparations his father would be required to pay- implied he hadn't believed Gunther's story, either.

 _Of course_ Jane questioned his veracity.

He should tell her the truth, put an end to whatever wild speculations were flying about her head, tangling in her untamed hair. He just ...he _couldn't._ Gunther tried once more to brush off her inquiries. Maybe she would just ...leave him alone?

"What do you want, Jane?" he snapped. "Have I not already confessed enough for one day?"

She actually stamped a foot, and Gunther would have thought for just the briefest moment - if he didn't know better - that she looked dangerously close to tears. " _Gunther_."

"I _did_ set that field on fire, Jane. I got the tar, set the tension, aimed, and pulled the cord. I _watched_ that field burn and did not say anything."

Jane drew in a sharp breath, clearly about to say something else, to call him on his complete and utter horseshit, but then released it instead in a shuddery sigh. "All right, Gunther. If you say so." She looked away from him, off toward the ramparts, then back again. Abruptly, she changed tack. "The sun is nearly down already. Perhaps you should just stay here tonight."

Wha- _what?_

"I cannot, Jane. It would be most imprudent to test the king's leniency by staying in the castle this evening." He let out a low, humorless chuckle. "Who knows what else I might set afire in the dead of night?"

"Gunther… the king would…" She trailed off and then shook her head. "I cannot believe you sometimes." She scrubbed her face with her hands and pushed her hair back before meeting his eyes again. "Just… be careful, all right? On… your walk home."

She didn't know. She _couldn't_ know. Could she? Had she somehow intuited what sort of reception Gunther could expect when he made it home? The thought of it - her knowing how displeased his father really _would_ be - made the feeling of dread which had settled in his chest positively _burn_.

At what point had their relationship changed? Twisted and turned and knotted about itself, so that despite their competitiveness and mutual dislike, her opinion actually _mattered?_ When had Gunther started to _care_ what Jane thought?

Feeling slightly desperate and much too exposed, he puffed out his chest and plastered a familiar smirk on his face. "Oh Jane, I did not know you cared."

She looked at him a moment longer, seeming torn. Then her shoulders drooped a little, and some deep part of Gunther twinged in protest at the defeated expression on her face. "I do, you know."

It was if she had kicked him in the chest.

He didn't deserve it, her concern.

"You should not. This whole thing - every last bit of it - was my fault."

"How could this _possibly_ be your fault?" She nearly yelled the question. "No one- NO ONE- least of all me, believes you launched a burning barrel of tar at those fields."

He sighed. "Perhaps not, but I did not stop him either, did I?"

"He is you _father._ No one would have expected you to -"

Gunther raised a hand, stilling whatever well-intentioned yet pointless lecture she was about to commence. " _I_ launched the flowers at you and Dragon, Jane. Not once, but _twice_. You fell out of the sky. You almost _died,_ Jane. And then _again_ when Dragon set the field on fire." Gunther ran a shaking hand through his hair. "I nearly killed you, and for what? A desire to win some stupid contest between Dragon and Sir Ivon? _I_ showed my father the field of weeds, and everything that happened thereafter was most _definitely_ my fault."

Gunther took a deep, shuddering breath. "Sir Ivon was far too lenient. I deserve whatever punishment my father doles out."

Jane's mouth dropped slightly open. She looked utterly poleaxed for a few seconds, then he watched the understanding click into place behind her eyes. "Oh, Gunther." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "You…"

Eye contact was suddenly much too painful. He needed to leave, escape, _run._ Gunther spun away, fists clenching, and started to leave. "I _told_ you," he said miserably, without looking back. "I deserve whatev-"

And then he broke off, mid-word, as Jane caught his hand from behind - exactly as he'd done to her mere hours ago. He whirled in surprise, instinctively trying to pull free, but Jane held on, just as he had when their roles had been reversed.

He was startled all over again by the look on her face; intense almost to the point of fierceness… but not angry. Or at least, not at him.

"You have honor, Gunther Breech," she said with flat emphasis. "It is in there somewhere. I know it. I have _always_ known it." A single tear streaked down her cheek, glittering in the fading light. "I just hope… I hope you know it too."

Gunther tugged at his hand, but she held fast. "I am not worthy of your faith, Jane." He choked on the words.

She didn't respond, but instead gave her head a single shake. Was it a denial of his statement, or an agreement? He didn't know. Looking down at their clasped hands, Jane gave his fingers a final squeeze before releasing him.

He turned and started away, unwilling to let her see the threatening tears.

"I wish you would stay, Gunther," she called after his retreating form, "the castle could be your home, too."

Gunther picked up his pace.

Maybe she was right. Perhaps one day it could be ...but not today.

* * *

 _AN: I just wanted to throw in a quick thanks to Lily here. Lily, you always gives the nicest reviews, but since you are a guest I cannot send you a thank-you note. THANK YOU for the reviews, they a make my day._


	11. Not My Uggs

"I think perhaps, Jane Turnkey, you weigh more than Dragon. How does that overgrown frog of yours manage get off the _ground_ with you?!"

"Clever, biscuit weevil." Jane shifted her grip on his shoulders and neck, pulling herself higher up on his back.

He was grateful for the change - not that he would tell her so - but her new position made it easier for him to keep her balanced, and he shrugged his arms up to settle her further.

Jane went on. "Of course, if you had not _insisted_ that we race in the questionable field instead of on the _very_ clear road, then we would not be in this situation now, would we? There would not have been a rock, or high grass, I would have been able to see where I was going, and I would not have rolled my ankle."

The _nerve_ of her.

"Is that what you think?" Gunther's voice dripped with scorn. "I will have you know that _I_ could see where I was going just fine, and maybe you would too if you only chopped back that matted orange owl pellet you have the audacity to call _hair_. Smithy's largest pair of shears would probably be adequate." He paused for a moment, considering. "... _Probably_."

Jane snarled in his ear. "If either of us need a haircut, it is surely you." She released one hand from around his neck long enough to finger a length of his own hair. "Though I suppose you think it dashing - your girlish tresses _are_ an excellent match to those three whiskers on your chin you keep stroking."

Gunther scoffed. "Just because _your_ beard is coming in faster…"

"Hardly." Jane snorted. He could almost hear her rolling her eyes. "Is there anything more ridiculous than a little boy, suddenly determined to grow out a non-existent moustache? Perhaps you should have Rake give you some fertilizer to rub on your upper lip? Then we can call you dung-stache." She laughed at her own joke, throwing her head back and nearly setting him off balance again.

"Say what you like, the fact is that this _little boy_ is strong enough to lug you along is the reason you are not _crawling_ back to the castle."

"Oh, do not get me wrong, Gunther. I am highly appreciative of your efforts." She was solicitousness and charm. "Quite the strapping young man you are becoming- moustache and all." She gave his shoulders a slight squeeze. "I always knew you would make an excellent donkey."

Could she _be_ any more annoying?

Probably.

He knew he shouldn't rise to her taunts. She was injured, they were quite a distance from the castle, and he was the older, the more _mature_ of the two. It was his responsibility to get her back safely.

Venomous mouth and all.

But _donkey?_ Oh no, he could not let that pass.

He turned his head to look at her. "And I always knew you were exceptionally skilled at sitting and running your mouth while other, stronger parties shoulder all the work!" he retorted. "That is more or less the way your patrols with Dragon go, is it not?"

"Unlike you," without releasing her hands, she poked him with one finger, "Dragon makes an excellent partner. Speaking of which, how many patrols have Sir Theodore and Sir Ivon entrusted you with?"

"Only the ones that actually matter."

She hummed thoughtfully. "Supervised, no doubt?"

"No doubt. And I have never let them come to harm yet." They reached a small embankment where the field rose up to meet the road. Gunther huffed at the effort, concentrating on his own footing while he climbed. It would not do to have them _both_ injured.

Thankfully, Jane was quiet while he navigated the uneven ground. She waited until they had reached the sorry excuse for a road - two ruts in the grass, really - before continuing. "Truly, Gunther, your arrogance knows no bounds. How easily you twist reality into a fantasy world of your own making."

 _Oh, ho!_ "So because I have a different perspective than you, only yours counts as reality? Who sounds arrogant _now?_ "

"It is not arrogance if I am _right._ Think of it as - " having slipped down while he climbed, she pulled herself up again, " - an education."

Gunther laughed. Good _lord,_ how could she live with herself?

"Handing out educations now, Jane?" he asked, smirking. "How enlightened. Perhaps you could take up giving etiquette lessons to Pig in your spare time - or maybe, she should give them to _you?_ "

"Oh Gunther," she said, her words dripping with saccharine honey, "you do sell yourself short. There is nothing more I could teach your sweetheart that you have not already covered."

Gunther felt a flare of anger. " _My_ sweetheart," he spat out, "lives in town, thank you very much."

At this rate, they wouldn't just be arguing the entire way home, they'd be coming to blows. Though based on Jane's current death grip on his shoulders - she'd let go of her wrists and her fingers were really digging in now - he wasn't sure he'd be able to shake her off long enough to actually fight.

Not that he _would_ fight Jane in earnest. Definitely not an _injured_ Jane.

Words it was, then.

"Besides," he continued, "if you _did_ let Pig teach you a thing or two about feminine wiles, perhaps you would have one of your own. A sweetheart, that is."

Jane made a sound that was somewhere between disbelief and disgust. "Gunther, the girl at the apple cart is _paid_ to be nice to you. I would hardly call her your _sweetheart._ Though I dare say, based on your temperament, you could probably stand to eat a bit more fruit."

It was Gunther's turn to roll his eyes. "How kind of you to be concerned." Jane could be so ...so ...so _juvenile_ sometimes. Not at all like his own matured self. "The next time I pass by, I will be sure to pick up an extra apple just for you. There are not many things that could improve your appearance, but an apple stuffed into your mouth would surely be one of them."

"Better stuffed in my mouth than shoved up y-"

She never got to finish the thought, thankfully. Carried away with their escalating .. _.debate_ , Gunther had stopped paying attention to where he was putting his feet and slipped in a patch of loose gravel. He stumbled a bit, lurching to the side a few steps, nearly overbalancing with Jane's added weight.

Jane made a pained noise as the sudden movement jostled her. Her breath hissed sharply through her teeth and she muttered what might have been a muffled little "mmph". Both of which she immediately clamped down on in an effort to prevent his notice.

Gunther felt a stab of guilt. He'd been so focused on their argument, so bloody desperate to one-up her in their barbed banter, he'd forgotten why he'd been carrying her in the first place.

Jane was _hurt._ Badly enough that he was _carrying_ her back to the castle.

And maybe ... _maybe_ it was at least _partially_ his fault.

He stopped walking and carefully, _gently_ , shifted her weight against him, reaffirming his grip. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and serious; a marked difference from the snide, provoking tone he'd been using a moment before. "Are you alright?"

She didn't answer right away, but instead pressed her face into where his neck met his shoulder, and made a breathy little sound of distress.

"Jane?" He could feel her fingers flexing where her hands were clasped around his neck.

A small shudder shook her slight frame.

" _Jane?_ " he tried again, genuinely worried now.

"I ...I will be fine, Gunther."

Gunther snorted. "Somehow I do not believe you." He shifted his stance and she made another one of those noises in his ear. "Jane, I am going to set you down and take a look at your ankle." He waited until he felt her nod against his shoulder. Gunther released his grip on her uninjured leg, letting her slide down his side while he supported her weight. Turning around so that he was facing her, he put his arms around her and gently lowered her down to the ground.

He was surprised and more than a little bit shaken to discover that her face was wet with tears. She must not have known she was crying.

Jane would rather shove splinters under her fingernails than let him see her cry.

Gunther pretended not to notice. She'd only become defensive, more likely to snap at him in her distress, and cause him - despite his best intentions - to snap back. And arguing had gotten them into this mess, hadn't it?

Once she was settled he dropped to one knee in front of her, then glanced up, meeting her eyes in a final, unvoiced query. Double-checking that she was all right with him manipulating her injury.

She shifted her weight in response, extending her leg toward him, and then leaned forward to roll up her hose.

Gunther winced at the sight of the swollen flesh. It was far worse than it had been when he'd picked her up. The bruising extended a good way above the top of her boot- but the ankle itself...it was swollen to the point of pushing against the leather, causing her shoe to become restrictive. It appeared as if her boot was preventing blood flow, exacerbating her injury further.

Gunther prodded gently at the discolored skin, eliciting a sharp hiss. "I think we need to take off your boot, Jane."

She looked hesitant. "Sir Ivon said you are not supposed to do that with an injured ankle."

"Well yes," he conceded, resisting the urge to be annoyed at her argument. She was hurt and probably not remembering clearly. "But that is only because you might not be able to get the shoe on again - should you have to walk on it." He ran his fingers up her leg to where the bruise ended mid-calf. "Does that hurt as well?"

"No. Well...It is tender to the touch but it does not _hurt_ like my ankle."

Gunther looked at her boot again, sighing. "I think this has to come off, Jane. I will carry you back to the castle, so you will not need it. Though ...I am afraid it is going to hurt."

"It already hurts, dung brain," she ground out.

Gunther ignored her insult. "If we do not pull it off now, we will have to cut it off later."

Jane sat for a moment, indecisive, then leaned back to lay flat in the low grass. "Alright. Just...be quick."

He sucked in a deep and not entirely steady breath, suddenly noticing that his palms had gone slick. This was… serious. He was fairly sure that it was necessary, that he was helping her, but still… she was already hurting and he was about to cause her to hurt more.

But Jane was right about this much, at least. Best be quick.

One hand at the top of her foot, one at the heel, he pulled gently at the boot. It would not budge. Steadying himself, he tried again, pulling far harder than he would have liked.

Jane shot back into a sitting position, jaw clenched against the pain. Beads of sweat glistened at her temples, dripping down to join the tracks of tears on her cheeks. She bit back a scream when he pulled a third time, the boot finally wrenching free.

Within the tight-stretched fabric of her sock, her mangled foot looked like a sack of turnips, left to get soft in the sun. The sharp sting of sympathy pain went slicing through his own wrists and ankles.

Gunther swallowed thickly. "Jane, I am so sorry."

Her tears were flowing freely now, dripping down her chin and onto her jerkin. "It looks awful, Gunther." A barely contained sob shook her body. "What if it does not heal correctly? What if I have a limp forever and cannot become a knight?"

Gunther was dumbfounded. The thought had never occurred to him. Jane had always seemed indestructible. Her boundless energy and determination often carrying her through situations which exhausted their fellow squires. He had never imagined a realistic scenario where Jane would somehow be unable to attain her goal of knighthood.

What _if_ she could not become a knight? What then?

She started to weep in earnest.

Anxious, unsure of what to do, Gunther moved to sit beside her, awkwardly putting his arms around her.

She leaned into him heavily, grabbing up a fistful of his shirt and burying her face in his shoulder. Her sobs were wet and snotty, and Gunther was fairly certain she was leaving a mess on his shirt.

He patted her back reassuringly. It was awkward and odd, but he was happy to do it. Well maybe not _exactly_ happy, but willing nonetheless. Anything to stop the mewlings of this strange and unsettling creature which had replaced Jane. "I am sure it is not so dire as all that, Jane. It looks like a bad sprain." Not that he had _any_ experience in such matters. "Surely nothing that will not heal with time."

She didn't respond, her tears continuing as though he hadn't spoken. She tightened her grip, her other arm snaking around his waist, crushing herself to him. It was uncomfortable, it was disconcerting, it was...strangely, inexplicably… _nice?_

He couldn't help but feel protective. Under the circumstances, who wouldn't? Gunther let her cry for a few minutes hating that she was upset, but not minding her closeness. The sound of her tears was causing him to _ache_ , somehow, deep inside. He was desperate to distract her from her unhappiness.

Gunther tried again. "Honestly, Jane. The lengths you will go for special treatment. I think perhaps you wanted a break from training."

It was muffled, but he felt her bark a laugh into his chest. An attempt to push past her self-pity and sally back. Nothing kept Jane down for long.

"You should be so lucky, Gunther Breech. Then maybe for _once_ you could be top squire."

 _There_ she was.

Slowly, she disengaged herself from his arms. One flat hand scrubbed the wet tracks from her face. "You should head back to the castle, fetch a horse or a cart. Dragon will not be back until tomorrow."

Gunther's newly awakened protective instinct flared. "I am _not_ leaving you here." He pulled his sodden shirt away from his skin. "Snot-covered or not."

"You cannot carry me back the whole way, Gunther," she said, scowling.

"I believe that is exactly what I was doing, before your little outburst - and you said _yourself_ I made an _excellent_ beast of burden."

Jane chuckled. Her face was blotchy and red, her nose unattractively swollen from her distress. A small amount of clear fluid escaped from her left nostril. She rubbed it away with the back of her hand.

With a final sniff. she nodded. "That you do."

Gunther helped her to her feet and with a grunt of effort, situated her on his back once again.

Jane snaked her hands around his shoulders, giving him a quick hug before shouting, "Onward, donkey!"

* * *

 _AN: Special thanks to Kyra for being the other half of the dialogue here- lobbing insults, stomping on egos. Pop Quiz- which one of us was Gunther and which was Jane?_


	12. Silent Knight

"Come now Gunther, whatever it is, it cannot be that bad." Smithy's tone was calm, reassuring. But really, when did Smithy _not_ sound like that? How wonderful it must be, to be in possession of an innate, unflappable sense of self-confidence.

He could _almost_ hate Smithy for it.

Smithy gave him a small, genuine smile.

 _Damnit_. Why did he have to be so… earnestly friendly?

Gunther shook his head in mute negation. He did not want - _nay_ \- he did not _need_ their pity just now. Gunther snuck a glance to where Jester was watching him closely. Pity _or_ ridicule. Yes, he could do without either, _thank you very much_.

Smithy, never one to be deterred, tried again. "Can you not tell us what is wrong? Jane told us you haven't said anything in over a fortnight."

It had been closer to three weeks, actually - but his father had taken up so much of his time as of late, Jane might not have noticed Gunther's silence immediately. It was more likely she'd thought him sulking or brooding over whatever the week's insult had been.

"Yes," Dragon chimed in from his perch above, "and while we are all enjoying the break from your _winning_ personality, you have Jane worried. Soft touch, that one." Dragon rolled his eyes. "Though maybe, if she is _truly_ worried about your cantankerous countenance, I think we should see if she's gone soft in the head." Dragon laughed at his own joke.

Smithy sent him a warning look.

Dragon ignored the blacksmith and scratched his head thoughtfully. "She says, and you can quote me on this, 'The dung brain has not insulted, taunted, or belittled me even once. And when I insult _him_ , he only grunts in response.' She thinks you might be sick, or injured, or maybe even dying."

Gunther frowned. The big lizard was _not_ helping.

"What?" Dragon asked innocently. "You two may get on like cats and dogs, and take every opportunity to stab at each other with your little swords, but it doesn't mean she doesn't _care."_

 _Hardly._

He and Jane may have gotten on better as of late; "better" being a rather fluid and changeable sort of description, but it didn't mean they were exactly good friends. Friends _cared_ about each other. They didn't poke and jab and search for the little chinks in each other's armor.

Though perhaps he hadn't given her enough credit. Jane _had_ taken steps to befriend him in the past, or at least, not given up when faced with his habitual poor attitude. Jane was nothing if not persistent. She'd even managed to bring him - at least peripherally - into her circle of friends; as evidenced by the boys' current attempt to draw him out.

Smithy shook his head, and cut off Dragon before he could insult Gunther further. "What Dragon is trying to say," he gave the reptile another warning look, "is that while we might not all be the best of friends, we _do_ care, Gunther."

Gunther studied the faces of the boys surrounding him.

Smithy _seemed_ sincere; his face was open and his concern was apparent. Jester sat placidly next to him, elbows balanced on his knees, chin balanced on balled fists. He smiled as Gunther met his eyes, the bells on his hat ringing as he nodded in agreement. Rake sat to his right - _who could tell if Rake was even paying attention to their conversation? -_ and Dragon, the lazeabout, was picking carrot out of his teeth with one long, frightening claw.

Gunther contemplated telling them. Gave long thought to opening his mouth and letting it all spill out, but he just couldn't. It was mortifying enough, to know that Jane had, had… had _sicced_ the rest of her set on him like bloodhounds chasing an injured animal's blood trail.

Gunther hung his head and laced his fingers behind his neck.

Smithy sighed. "Consider this, Gunther. If you do not tell us what is wrong, or at least give us something to tell Jane, it is very likely she will mention her concerns to Sir Theodore."

 _Ugh, no. Not that._

Sir Ivon was bad enough- but Sir Theodore? Gunther wasn't sure he could handle whatever awkwardly-embarrassing-yet-somehow-still-disapproving lecture the old knight would impart.

Resigned, Gunther sat up. He took a deep breath and said, "I have been quiet because my voice is changing and I do not want to be teased."

Or at least, he tried to.

What _actually_ came out was something more akin to, "i ha- BEh ITE beCAuse -EYE angin ah EYe do not waaaaant tO be TEA."

All of them, the entire bloody lot of boys and beast, pulled back and grimaced as one, their breath hissing between their mutually clenched teeth. Each one _cringed_ in abject _horror_ at the discordant scratches and squeaks which was all that remained of Gunther's voice.

"Cows above," Dragon exclaimed, "it as if someone has made a cat into an instrument, inflated the poor animal, and then beat it with Sir Ivon's bagpipes."

"Very helpful, Dragon," scolded Smithy.

Dragon ignored him. "It is terrible, and I mean _terrible._ Possibly the worst I have ever heard - and I have been around for over three hundred of your shortlife years."

"Come now, Dragon," said Rake, finally joining the conversation, "it is not _that_ bad."

"Oh, but it _is._ " Dragon turned to Gunther. "Honestly it is! Let us have it Gunther- say something else. I want to see if it is as nauseating the second time around."

Gunther hung his head. _This_ is why he had been silent.

Smithy shushed the giant frog, to no avail.

"I mean, that was _horrible._ Frightening really. You are quite right to stay silent. And here I had thought Jester's was bad."

Gunther perked up at that. Jester? When had Jester's voice been anything but dulcet and sweet? _Jester?_ Gunther searched recent memory. For the life of him, he couldn't recall Jester's voice changing. Maybe this last winter? No. Jester had sung the yule carols just as sweetly as ever during at the winter's ball. More recently perhaps?

Gunther raised his head to study the fool. Jester seemed to have reddened the slightest bit at Dragon's words, but rather than answering, he gave Gunther the barest of tight-lipped smiles.

When had Jester's voice changed? Gunther couldn't remember. Was it deeper now? When was the last time he had bothered to notice something as trivial as anyone's voice, let alone _Jester's?_ His mind whirled, trying to remember. Gunther couldn't recall the last time Jester had teased him for some slight folly or another. Sure, their paths hadn't crossed much as of late, but still -

In fact, now that he thought about it, Gunther couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Jester sing, or tell jokes, or recite poetry, or ...well ... _anything._

Indeed, he vaguely remembered the king had mentioned something about Jester wanting to perfect his miming.

Seeing Gunther put two and two together, Jester sighed and spoke up. "Yes, mine was really bad as well, though it seems to be getting better." Jester's voice _was_ different, deeper and a bit raspy. "However, it is something all young performers fear; a singing voice can take _years_ to mature and the king bade me silent, lest I damage it in the meantime." A worried look replaced his usual smile. "I suppose I should consider myself lucky the king enjoys the acrobatic portions of my repertoire, though if my voice doesn't settle well, I will likely be replaced." He sounded resigned to his fate, even though his voice had only broken once throughout his entire speech.

Years? _YEARS?_ Jester would have to be silent - or at least avoid singing - for actual _years?_ And then, at the end, still face the very real risk being let go? Shuffled off to be replaced by some other boy who could not rhyme or dance or juggle half as well?

Suddenly, Gunther didn't feel quite so bad about his own predicament.

"Jester may have to be silent, for his own good of course, but that does not mean you do," said Smithy. "Why have you not said anything, Gunther? We have all been through it - excepting Dragon of course."

Gunther mumbled his response.

"Come again?" asked Dragon.

"Jane would make fun of me."

Understanding, however skeptical, dawned on their faces.

Rake put a reassuring hand on Jester's shoulder. "Jane does not make fun of Jester. She will not make fun of you, Gunther."

"Well, of course not." Said Gunther, his voice cracked and ground like broken ice. The boys leaned forward listening intently; their faces screwed up in concentration as they tried to follow what he was saying. "Jester is _special_ to Jane."

"Special like a sister." Jester brooded.

 _Ouch._

Gunther wasn't the most empathetic of people at the best of times, but even he felt the hurt of that statement. Poor Jester really _had_ been through the ringer lately.

Rake gave Jester's shoulder a comforting squeeze, then went back to looking vaguely absent.

Still, Gunther did not hold a special place in Jane's heart like Jester did, sibling-like love or no. Quite the opposite, in fact. Always eager to find some means to best her rival, Jane would _certainly_ make use of his _unfortunate_ state, as best she could. Maybe not _all_ the time, Gunther would admit Jane was never cruel, but it was not something he was willing to risk.

At least, not at the moment.

Though as much as he wanted to, Gunther was aware he couldn't remain silent forever.

"I do not see what all the fuss is about." Dragon grumbled. "You are all acting as though Jane would purposefully torture the smarmy boy. Sure she can be a little stubborn, or pig-headed, or thoughtless, or impulsive, or ...where was I going with this?" Dragon cleared his throat. "Ah yes. Jane may not be perfect, but Jester aside, you all cannot believe she would be so callous as to… to… to _bully_ Gunther?"

Gunther groaned and said. "I am pretty sure mutal bullying is the basis for our partnership. I very much doubt Jane would miss an opportunity to take some much-deserved revenge." At least, that is what he tried to say. Nevertheless, the group seemed to understand the jist of his statement.

They nodded as one, as if he had been perfectly clear.

Only Dragon seemed to disagree. "She would not tease you, Gunther."

"I do not know, Dragon." Smithy put his hands on his hips and studied his feet as he shifted, uneasy. "Jane is as just as capable of making a poor decision as the rest of us. I seem to remember her teasing the older squires so mercilessly, she made the big one cry."

"Robert?" asked Rake.

Smithy nodded.

"Yes," agreed Rake, "I remember that, though it was a few years ago."

Gunther certainly remembered it, clearly. Poor Robert, the bruiser of a boy who was now the new darling of the castle guard, had run off and wept, _actually wept,_ at Jane's honking, snorting laughter. Sure, he'd accepted her apology with good grace, but even now he would avoid Jane whenever possible.

"And of course you remember her over-reacting that rest day we played bandyball?" Asked Jester.

"Or that time she decided the merchant was stealing the castle's shoes?"

"The incident with the fishmonger."

"When she accused the king of fratricide and of being an impostor."

Jester shuddered. "That time we went camping."

Smithy cringed. "Or even the wretched business with the made-up king, Barrow Claw?"

"Barrelclaw" corrected Dragon. "Barrel. Claw. It is not difficult. Why cannot you short lives remember it?"

"Because he did not exist, Dragon." said Jester. "Perhaps if Jane had not been embarrassed and foolheartedly made him up, we would be more likely to get his non-imaginary name correct."

"I think you are all being a bit judgemental," defended Dragon.

Smithy raised his eyebrows. "An what about that time Jane went snooping in Sir Theodore's trunk and jumped to the erroneous conclusion her mentor was a _dragon slayer_? Who was being judgemental then?"

Dragon deflated a bit and pulled his ears flat against his head. "As yes. Double-trouble, that one. But that does not mean Jane is a bad person."

"Of course not, Dragon, no one thinks Jane is a bad person." Rake said, in an attempt to soothe the lizard's hurt. "But perhaps it does imply that Gunther's…" he paused, thinking, "... _concerns_ are a bit justified. After all, she _did_ send all of us to talk to Gunther. Not one, or two, but _all_ of us. Worried or no, she can sometimes be a bit…" Rake searched for the right words. "Over the top? Less than subtle?"

Gunther wholeheartedly agreed.

"Our point is," continued Smithy in an attempt to cut off any further argument from Dragon. "While Jane _means_ well, most of the time, she is just as fallible to poor choices as the rest of us. Perhaps _more_ so, because she tends to act before she thinks."

"Who acts?" asked Sir Ivon, having approached their group unseen. With a sigh and nod of approval from Gunther - _what was the point of hiding it any further, if they all knew anyway? -_ Smithy quickly explained the problem.

"Och," Sir Ivon gestured vaguely over to the brickwork over the portcullis. "Is that why skinny malinky longlegs is over there, spying on the bunch of ye?"

They turned to followed the knight's line of sight and caught the barest flash of red as the top of Jane's head disappeared behind the block of stone. Even from here they could hear her squeak of embarrassment.

"And here you did not think she cared." Cracked Jester.

"Nay! Not ye too, Jester?" Sir Ivon sagged when Jester nodded in response. "Who will sing me my favorite battle songs?" he asked.

Jester shook his head sadly. "Not me for a while, I am afraid."

"Well," Sir Ivon leveled his gaze at Gunther, "I should have expected this coming, though I am not sure why I did not. I supposed with ye training with Jane I just dinnae think of you as one of the lads."

Dragon laughed heartily while Gunther tried to make himself as small as possible. Indeed, he would have been _quite_ pleased if the ground just opened up and swallowed him whole.

 _Lovely. Just Lovely._ Gunther wasn't just separate from the other boys, even his own mentor thought of him - lumped him _most embarrassingly -_ as "one of the girls".

Seeing his discomfort, Sir Ivon rushed to explain. "Och, no!" That issnae what I meant. I just…" he searched for an explanation which would not make Gunther feel worse. Sensitive, he was not.

Gunther appreciated the effort, even if the effort itself was rather futile.

"When the other squires went through this, last winter? The winter before?" Sir Ivon started.

"Bunch of dying seagulls, that bunch." Dragon interjected.

Sir Ivon looked cross, but continued on. "It never occurred to me that ye were not one of them." Sir Ivon sat down beside Gunther and stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I seem to recall young Jane braying like a damned donkey every time one of those lads opened their mouths." Realization dawned on him. "Is that why ye have been so quiet as of late?"

Gunther nodded.

Sir Ivon hummed and stroked his beard. "Well, that is a conundrum - though I do not think you can be quiet forever."

Well, that was certainly true. At some point, Gunther would _have_ to talk; whether it was in response to a question asked by the knights, a king's command, or during practice. He couldn't be quiet _forever._ Well, not forever, he supposed. Eventually his voice would change and that would be that.

It was the "in the meantime" which worried him.

"Maybe he does not have to be, Sir Ivon." said Jester, echoing Gunther's own thoughts. "Maybe Gunther only has to be quiet for a little while longer. Gunther, how long has it been?"

"Three, maybe four weeks?" squeaked Gunther.

"Perhaps," Jester stood and began to pace. "Perhaps if you could remain quiet for a bit longer, the worst of it would pass, and Jane would be none the wiser."

"And just how would he do that?" Asked Dragon, laughing, "Pretend he was sick?"

"Yes!" Jester's voice squeaked the slightest bit. "We could tell Jane Gunther has a cold, one which has made him lose his voice. A cold would explain any previous...grumpiness, _and_ have the added benefit of him not wanting to chat."

"Laryngitis?" Asked Rake. "I have the nicest patch of lemon balm and camomile just for that reason."

"I am sure you do, Rake. But Gunther is not actually sick." Jester reminded gently.

"Oh yes," came the dreamy reply.

"Nay, Jester." Sir Ivon shook his head, cutting in. "Even if I approved of one of my squires telling tales to another one of his lot, - which I do not - I doubt ye could convince Jane Gunther has lost his voice. It could take _months_ for the bloody thing to finish up. Is the lad supposed to remain silent through spring and summer and perhaps fall?"

"Well," Jester replied, his mind whirling, "technically Gunther will not be telling Jane anything. She did send us," he gestured to the gathered boys, "to find out what was bothering Gunther. Gunther will not be breaking the knight's code of honor, and as we are not knights, neither will we."

Sir Ivon looked skeptical.

Gunther agreed. It was a flimsy premise, at best.

"Do not think of it as a lie, think of it as...misdirection. We will tell her Gunther is not feeling quite himself - which is true - and that his voice is not working properly - which is also true."

Sir Ivon leaned back. He crossed his arms and extended his legs before him. "And how are ye gonna pull the wool over the lassie's eyes for _months_ at a time? Jane is as bright a lass as they come. She willnea be fooled for long."

"We will take turns being sick." Offered Smithy.

"I always knew you were sly, Smithy." Jester clapped his approval. "We will each get 'sick', one at a time, and spend a week or so not talking. Gunther, you will leave on patrol fairly soon, correct?"

Gunther nodded. "On Monday I will be on a two-week ride with the older squires. Jane will remain behind because she is to patrol the coast with Dragon. I believe she rides out at the end of the month."

Jester listened hard, and was able to pick up most of what Gunther was able to squeak out. "Excellent. When you get back, I shall suddenly fall ill for a few weeks, then Smithy, then Rake. Then back again, only for a different amount of time."

"And me?" Gunther asked, this all sounded like folly to him. Surely Jane would realize Gunther was the constant in all of this?

"You, poor Gunther, will conveniently feel better while out on patrols, but will unfortunately relapse once you come into contact with one of us." Jester was assured of their success, excited at the prospect of a triumphant subterfuge.

"Jane is never going to believe it," said Dragon, "And if by some rare chance she _does,_ she will figure it out eventually. She will be quite mad when she finds out you all have been lying to her."

"And how will she find out, Dragon?" asked Jester. "You are not going to tell her, you are going to help us."

Dragon rankled at his tone. "I do not believe I have agreed to any of this, fool."

"You will." Jester seemed quite certain of Dragon's capitulation. "Unless you want Jane to know what _really_ happened to that cow?"

Dragon's eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening me, Jingle-bells? I daresay you had better not be. I could roast you where you stand."

"Of course not, Dragon. I would never _threaten_ you. Think of it as ...gentle persuasion." Jester grinned. To Gunther, it looked a bit _more_ than mischievous. Past enmity aside, he made a mental note to keep on Jester's good side. The fool sidled up to the Dragon and poked him on his great scaled nose, unafraid. "As we have already established, Jane thinks of me as a sibling, so you _cannot_ roast me."

"I could say it was an accident." The dragon countered.

If possible Jester's roguish grin deepened even further. "She would never forgive you. Perhaps even hold it against you _more_ , since an accident could always happen _again._ "

Gunther watched fascinated, while the two squared off. Never, _never,_ would he have expected Jester to blackmail Dragon over _anything_ \- nevermind, _him._

Gunther. Jane's most despised rival.

Jester laughed again, his deeper voice giving the sound a bit of a malicious undertone.

Who knew Jester could be so... so... so scary?

"Why?" he asked in an attempt to break up their rather _intimidating_ attempt to stare one another down. "Why would you do this for me? Lie to Jane, risk her ire pretending to be sick for an indeterminable amount of time, fight with Dragon?"

Of course, all that _actually_ came out was a single scratchy, broken, "Why?"

It was enough though. Jester understood his question.

"Well. Because." Jester shrugged.

It wasn't enough of an answer. "Because, why?" he pressed.

"Because you are one of us." Jester replied, with honest surprise.

"And you need our help." Smithy added.

Rake nodded in agreement. "We always help our own."

The three looked expectantly at Dragon, who made a sound that was between a growl and a grumble. "All for one." He twirled a sarcastic claw in the air.

"But isn't Jane one of you? More so than I?" Gunther was having a hard time wrapping his mind around all of ...this.

"Of course not." Said Rake, dismissively. "You two have always been a package deal."

They all nodded in coordinated solemnity, as if that made _any_ sense, whatsoever.

Gunther wasn't sure what to make of that.

"Besides, if we _are_ caught, we will say it was a prank." Jester bowed to Dragon. "Jane is a fan of pranks, is she not?"

Dragon nodded and chewed on his bottom lip. He seemed unconvinced.

"So then we are agreed?" Asked Jester.

"Yes!" they replied together. Well, mostly. After a moment, their cheer was followed by a reluctant, perhaps even _petulant_ "yes" from Dragon.

"And at that I shall take my leave." Sir Ivon slapped his knees and stood up. "I learned long ago ne're to lie to a woman - and I suggest that none of ye do either; so I willnae be joining ye in your quest, no matter how noble."

"But Sir Ivon -" started Smithy.

"Nay." He held up a stilling hand. "Dinnae tell me any more. Plausible deniability, my boy. I willnae reveal your secret, but I willnae be helping you either. You lads have fun." And with that, was gone.

* * *

And so began the castle's longest, most infamous - but thankfully _mild -_ bout of illness in the kingdom's history.

No one was sick enough to require care, or even a dismissal of duties, but one by one the young men of the castle would ultimately fall ill. They'd feel poorly for a few days, then suddenly lose their voice for a week or two, then recover none the worse for wear.

And Gunther, ever at the shuffling mercy of his father's demands on his time, was pulled to and fro often enough no one seemed to notice that he, as the one always silent, was the common denominator. Surely Sir Theodore noticed, the man missed nothing after all, but Sir Ivon must have warned him off. When Jane and Gunther trained together, he asked questions of Jane but issued orders to Gunther.

Gunther thought perhaps the old knight enjoyed the scheme; happy to see the boys come together with a single goal. No doubt he wanted to see if they would be successful in their endeavor, or if Jane would catch them. Stealth and planning _were_ part of being knight - and though the other boys did not fall directly under Sir Theodore's purview - Gunther felt he must have approved of the effort.

Or maybe, just maybe, Sir Theodore appreciated the break in his and Jane's bickering.

So for one entire summer, Gunther felt the comforting, loving embrace of his sometimes-silent brotherhood. It was a grand play. A shared secret. An inside joke to which no one else was privy. An endless source of amusement which, as time went on, had less to do with fooling the people around them, and more to do with providing one another with the support necessary to continue the ruse.

That was not to say it was easy.

Quite the opposite, in fact. Gunther could not remember how many times he bit the inside of his cheek or tongue to keep silent. Though he did learn to communicate without talking, and used expressions or gestures to get his point across when relaying information was absolutely necessary. It was difficult, but with practice came the happy side effect of learning to read people; a skill which had gone undeveloped during his lonely childhood. Understanding the finer nuances of someone's expression or body language provided an unexpected boon: suddenly his interactions with others were _much_ simpler, and Gunther found it easier to fit in with _everyone_ at the castle, not just the boys.

Who knew _listening_ would be so useful?

Gunther might have improved his own silent communication, but his newfound skills were nothing - _nothing -_ compared to Jester. Perfecting his mummery, indeed!

Jester was a _master._

The fool had already been bid silent by the king - surely a command which rankled - but with Gunther to protect, and provided with an actual, conceivable _goal,_ Jester reveled in his silence. Somehow - Gunther marveled at his prowress - Jester could still tell an entire tale, make his audience laugh and weep then laugh again, with nothing but his expressive face and an instrument in his lap.

Oh yes, Jester's talents were beyond compare and no one, _no one,_ played a pathetically ill and tragically worried for his future fool better than Jester.

Jane had nothing but sympathy and concern for her poor, beleaguered friends, and was none the wiser. She and Pepper raided Rake's garden again and again, boiling pot after scented pot of medicinal tea, mixing up poultices, creating draughts, producing honeyed sweets in hopes to soothe the boys' wretched throats and calm their worried minds.

As the one most often "sick" Gunther found himself the recipient of much coddling, which - while sweet - was also stifling. Pepper snuck him treats between meals and cooed over his silent self. She was gentle and supportive, and always available to help - even when it was not needed. Jane's brand of nursing was a little more direct - she saw his illness as problem and _attacked_ it; Gunther had more tea forced on him that summer than any single person could drink in _two_ lifetimes.

And the poultices! _Dear lord, the poultices_.

Neither girl thought _anything_ of hunting him down to slap some horrid, foul-smelling, lukewarm, wet concoction on his neck and chest.

Gunther didn't know if the remedies helped or not, but he _supposed_ it was nice to be cared for. Even if it _was_ a little stifling.

And wet.

And sticky.

Jester, however, did not seem to mind.

Gunther thought his peculiarities were _deeply_ worrisome.

Jester _loved_ everything about the girls' care - but it seemed the poultices were his especial favorite. Gunther wasn't certain _why -_ maybe Jester believed the sticky muck would help him recover his singing voice?

It was as good an explanation as any, but it still did not fully explain why Jester strutted around, his shirt left open, beckoning in a silent invitation. Should one clucking female or another see his bare, untreated chest, she would drop whatever chore she'd been doing to rub something warmish and foul into his skin. Jester would sit there mute, a vaguely pleased look on his face until she'd finish; at which point his eyes would go wide - baleful and watery - until the girl wrapped herself around him in warm, feminine comfort.

It was _almost_ as if -

Oh.

 _Oh._

 _OOOHH._

Jester was a bloody _genius._

Not that Gunther would ever, ever feed the fool's inflated ego by telling him so.

Yes, Jester definitely reveled in the the attention. Smithy too, if Gunther thought about it. Rake? Well, Rake just seemed oblivious as always.

Their ruse was _so_ convincing that when Jane herself came down with an _actual_ cold, she avoided any unnecessary speech, just in case.

At that Gunther _had_ felt a little guilty - but had watched, wordless - as Jane struggled through her duties, red-nosed and silent.

Yup. He definitely felt bad.

But not _quite_ bad enough confess the truth.

* * *

In the end, the whole scheme took less than three months.

It wasn't long before his voice stopped its crazed trips up and down the octaves, finished with the sudden rises and dips in pitch, ceased those odd unexpected silences and manic increases in volume. Gunther's voice had, for the most part _,_ abandoned the tenor of his childhood and settled into the final baritone of his coming adulthood, without _too_ _many_ additional squawks or screeches.

A day or two before the boys had decided to end their charade and allow Gunther to find his voice again, Jane was sent out with Dragon to deliver messages around the far edges of the kingdom. The habit of remaining silent now well-ingrained, Gunther felt no sudden flux of words or rush of repressed conversation. Indeed, he felt no need to resume his sarcastic demeanor or witty repertoire at all. It was _far_ less work to chime in occasionally, speak when spoken to, and avoid unnecessary arguments.

Gunther had realized - with a small twinge of embarrassment - people actually _listened_ to what he said, if he only spoke when he had something important to say.

Besides, with Jane absent, who would he trade insults and jibes with, anyway?

His continued silence meant no one commented on his new, deeper voice, though he did receive a startled gasp the first time he thanked Pepper for lunch. For a moment Gunther worried she might smear him with another of her poultices, but after a long, indecipherable look, she merely nodded her welcome.

A few minutes later when Jester sat down for his own meal, Pepper set his plate on the table and without _any_ warning at all, _crack!_ slapped the back of his head. Jester's whole body rocked forward with the force of her blow, and his hat landed _splat!_ in his soup. Dumbstruck, Jester stared at the motley hat, stunned into shocked silence as the pointed edges of his hat slowly drooped into the steaming liquid.

Gunther wasn't _certain_ Pepper's outburst had anything to do with their little ploy, but he made certain to steer clear of the cook for a few days, lest his ears receive a boxing.

* * *

Jane's circuitous route, which involved delivering and collecting the king's correspondence, meant she was gone for nearly a fortnight. It wasn't the first time she'd been given such a task, and she made good time.

Gunther happened to be on watch when Jane returned, late into the evening of a moonless night. He watched as Dragon landed clumsily; their movements were slow, jerky, and they were both obviously tired. Jane slid wearily off Dragon's neck, the satchel of messages for the king hanging loosely at her side. She was distracted by her fatigue and did not notice as Gunther approached - she lifted a tired hand and bid dragon goodnight as he launched himself into the sky.

Jane started for her tower but in her exhaustion, tripped over her own feet. She would have tumbled into the dirt if Gunther had not reached out to grip her elbow.

"Careful now, Jane," he cautioned.

Jane started at his sudden appearance and jerked out of his grip. The movement nearly sent her sprawling again, and she dropped her satchel. Its contents scattered in the dirt as she took a defensive stance. "Who goes there?" she demanded, the smallest bit of fear creeping into her voice.

"Did you hit your head when you tripped, frog rider?" Gunther chuckled. "That would be quite the feat, even for you."

Jane blinked and squinted in an attempt to discern his features in the sparse light of the torches. "G- Gunther?" she asked.

"Well yes, Jane." Gunther cocked his head in question. "Who else would I be?" Gunther dropped to one knee and gathered the letters. He carefully placed them in her bag and handed it back to her. "How was your flight? Uneventful, I hope?"

She didn't answer right away, and it was far too dark to accurately work out her expression, but he was close enough to see her silhouette shiver before she responded. The winds must have been cold up in the clouds.

"I- It was." She stammered the words. "Uneventful, that is." Jane cleared her throat and fidgeted a bit. "Nothing to report."

The trip must have been long and tiring if she was tripping over her words _and_ feet. She probably needed to get to bed if she was going to be of any use tomorrow - or provide any sort of challenge during sparring.

Gunther himself needed to finish his circuit of the castle grounds before he could be relieved, so he stepped away. When she didn't move, he grew concerned. "Jane, are you quite alright?"

She shivered again.

"Yes," she replied, and shook her head. Presumably to dislodge the cobwebs there. "Yes, I am. Thank you."

Tired then.

"Be careful on the steps," Gunther warned, "there is no moon tonight." He gave her a slight bow before turning away. "Good night, Jane."

"G- goodnight, Gunther," she said, her voice breaking.


	13. æl mǣst - Our Get Along Tabard

"OCH! That is ENOUGH."

Gunther and Jane pulled themselves up short and stepped away from their opponent with practiced haste.

"Sir Ivon?" He ventured, "But we've just started sparring…"

"Aye, that you have, but you two have been at each other's throats for _days_ now. Everything has to be an argument, or a challenge, or a blasted _competition,"_ Sir Ivon threw his hands up into the air. "If I have to listen to another day of _bickering_ I am going to go stark, raving _mad!"_

Gunther glanced over to Jane, who stared down at her feet, embarrassed.

"I cannot decide," Sir Ivon continued, "if I should split you up, perhaps send you both to train elsewhere," Jane gave a small gasp, "or if I should shackle you together until you can get along."

"Sir, I-" Gunther began,

"Nay, do not interrupt _Squire_ Breech."

Gunther closed his mouth with an audible snap. Addressing him by his surname _and_ his rank? Sir Ivon was not just hungover - he was _angry_. Nothing, _nothing_ good would come from arguing further.

"Perhaps I have been too lax, mistaken in thinking this _competitiveness_ of yours was somehow making you both try harder. But no. You two are behaving like _children_. Annoying, snot-nosed, bickering, need yer nappies changed _children."_

Gunther felt heat crawl up his neck. It was ...unpleasant to be called out so directly.

Sir Ivon… he was not wrong ...but Jane had just been so, _so, UGH_ lately. They'd had the the reprieve of his silent summer, but old habits were hard to break. By fall they'd been back at it, though Gunther's own insults had improved greatly; his bettered observational skills meant his stinging arrows flew true - which meant her own return volleys had more bite.

But really, he couldn't be held responsible. Jane had been _far_ more argumentative than normal. She had been merciless, really. She'd taken every opportunity to point out his mistakes, been quick to give insult - ready to take offense. It wasn't her monthly - he'd long ago learned to steer clear of her on those days - she was just … who knew what her problem was?

And of course Gunther hadn't been exactly kind _either_ \- it was difficult, _impossible even_ , to resist responding to her taunts and teases - or to make his own little pokes and jabs when the opportunity presented itself.

Sir Ivon glowered at them, his hands balled into fists on his hips. "Just _what_ do you have to say for yourselves?"

Gunther opened his mouth, his previous resolution to remain silent already forgotten, and would probably have gotten himself into more trouble if Jane hadn't spoken up, cutting him off.

"We apologize, Sir Ivon. I had," she cleared her throat, " ...that is, _we_ had not realized our jests were getting out of hand."

Sir Ivon scoffed at the word 'jests'. Gunther could have told her pretty language had _no_ effect on Sir Ivon's temperament.

...saying so would probably lead to another argument.

"But now that you have pointed it out, we will ... _endeavor_ , "she gave Gunther a pointed look, "to get along."

Sir Ivon seemed completely, wholly, _utterly_ unconvinced.

Gunther rather agreed. They hadn't been able to get along - for any consistent length of time - for _years._

"Somehow lassie, I doubt it. But you both _will_ figure out how to remain civil in one another's company or you will find yourselves shipped off to the ends of the kingdom to finish your trainings."

Jane opened her mouth to retort, then clearly thought better of it. She pressed her lips together in a tight line and kept her thoughts to herself.

The old knight nodded, pleased with her decision to remain silent. "In the meantime," he continued, "You are both to go clean out the stables for Smithy- lord knows he has had to listen to you both just as much as I have, if not more."

Gunther snuck a guilty glance at Smithy; the blacksmith was trying _very_ hard not to pay attention to Sir Ivon's lecture.

Gunther felt a rush of sympathy for his friend. Unless he was actively working the bellows or hammering something on the anvil, there was no way for him to escape never-ending bickering.

Poor Smithy.

Gunther raised one brow in grimacing, embarrassed question - _is it that bad?_

Smithy gave a small nod.

Well, shite. Perhaps he and Jane _had_ been a excessively ...combative, as of late?

Sir Ivon, apparently having decided he was finished with his lecture, stormed off, mumbling a litany of irritated curses under his breath.

Gunther felt his shoulders sag - _leave the castle? -_ because it _would_ be him that was sent away. Dragon would follow Jane, wherever she went, but there was no plausible way the king would allow the ... _obvious_ implied threat - the layer of potentially fiery protection Dragon afforded the castle to simply _leave._

A similar thought must have occurred to Jane as well, because she murmured a very small, very un-Jane apology before relieving him of his wooden sword. Chagrined, she shuffled over to the weapons shed all trace of her usual exuberance gone, and hung it with her own on the rack.

* * *

They had been raking, shoveling, and scooping for several long hours when Jane paused and leaned against her shovel. She stared resignedly at nothing - her eyes unfocused, blank - and made no move to resume her work.

"Come now, Jane.' He teased, drawing her out of her reverie. "Surely you are not giving up just yet."

"And why not?" She bit out, clearly unhappy to have had whatever thoughts that had been tumbling around interrupted. "I have done twice the work you have."

Gunther snorted. I was so _easy_ to provoke her. "Hardly. Clearly I have managed to surpass you yet again."

Jane opened her mouth, closed it, and started again. "You realize we are arguing about manaure." A little crease formed between her brows. "Do you have to be so… so… problematic?"

His voice was dry. "I am not problematic."

Her mouth curled in a little twist of disbelief. Instead of responding, she set her shovel against the wall and plopped down on a nearby stool with a heavy sigh. She leaned her head back - her hair was a bright punctuation against the rough wood of the wall - and stared at the ceiling. After a long moment she let out a chuff of frustrated air. "Perhaps Sir Ivon was right. Maybe we _have_ been more argumentative than normal." She rolled her head to look at him. "I apologize, Gunther."

Gunther was taken aback. Astonished. Struck _dumb_ in the wake of her apology. His expression must have shown his amazement, because she crossed her arms and frowned. Clearly, that was not the response she had been looking for.

He struggled to rally, to wipe the look off his face before she - as she had so often in the past - ordered him to wipe the look off his face.

Was she really sorry, or was her apology a means to an end? Jane was nothing if not _honest_ \- wasn't her honesty half the reason for most of her troublesome adventures?

Gunther supposed it didn't matter - whether or not she was being truthful - she was making an _effort_ , a tentative offering of peace. It was more than he had done. If she should extend her hand in an effort to better their contentious relationship, he should take it in good faith.

"I-" He cleared his throat and tried again. "I suppose I am sorry as well."

Jane was silent for a moment, thinking about their predicament. "We cannot continue on like this, Gunther. I very much doubt your father would allow you to be relocated and I have no desire to be shipped off to the icy north." She brushed something off her pants. "The king will be glad to be rid of Dragon."

 _Huh_. He hadn't even considered his father's demands on his time. Still, heir or no, it wasn't as if they were _family._ Magnus had paid for his training, and expected Gunther to achieve the title associated with it. If that meant being apprenticed out elsewhere? Well, so be it.

And then there was Dragon. Of course Jane - being Jane - would not see her lizard friend as the frighteningly destructive force the king did. She'd see his bumbling accidents as reason for the king to _agree_ to their relocation. It would _never_ occur to her to think that if Dragon could cause such damage on _accident,_ then havok he could wreak under the control of a lady knight - one loyal to the crown - was valuable _indeed._

Yes, it would _definitely_ be Gunther who would be shipped off.

Still, old habits died hard.

"The winters would hardly do wonders for your hair." He agreed, then cringed. Hell - it had been less than a minute since her apology, and he had already lobbed an insult in her direction.

Thankfully, she let it slide. "Har. Perhaps you have an idea?" She seemed tired, exhausted even, though of exactly what he could not say. They hadn't been shoveling _that_ long.

Gunther thought for a moment but was unable to produce anything useful. He shrugged - truly, he was at a loss. He and Jane had an uncanny knack for arguing over the stupidest of things. Swordplay, lunch portions, shoe size, who could spit the farthest, and most recently, dung… last week they'd even argued over how _green_ the leaves were.

Jane had insisted for _well_ over an hour, that there was a green _deeper_ , more _full_ , than green. That she, being a _woman_ , could appreciate the slight variations in shade better than he, as an unimaginative _man_.

How ridiculous was that?

He had been _quite_ convinced she had gone barking mad.

Getting along - for any length of time - seemed quite impossible.

"I do not know Jane." He thrust the spade of his own shovel into the dirt, leaning on the handle - copying her posture from before. "Perhaps we could start.. small?"

Jane looked weary. "What do you suggest?"

"Maybe…" Gunther mulled around a few ideas; none seemed to hold any more promise than the other. "Maybe we could start by being _nice_ to one another?"

Jane seemed dubious.

It was a bit of a stretch, he supposed. How could they go from being at each other's throats - a partnership based on competitiveness and rivalry - to being nice? Where would they even start?

Jane must have had the same thought because she said, "...but where do we begin?"

"I have no idea." Gunther pulled his shoulders up into a half-shrug. "Maybe… maybe we could start by saying something nice to one another? A compliment, perhaps?"

Jane perked up. "That is a champion idea! I shall start first." She laughed at her own little joke and clapped her hands.. "Your turn!"

Gunther sighed, annoyed. "That is not what I meant, Jane."

"And why not?" She asked. "We have to start somewhere. But if you insist, I will go again." She cracked her neck and squared her shoulders. "Gunther, I think you have done an excellent job in the stables today. Your horses seem pleased."

Gunther rolled his eyes. This was silly. Complete folly. But -

He bowed, one hand resting on the top of his shovel. "Thank you, Lady Jane. So kind of you to notice. May I say, I have never met anyone so adept at shoveling manure as yourself."

Jane groaned and stood up. "Fine, if you do not want to _try,_ let's just skip this exercise in futility."

Gunther blinked at her, confused. "What?"

She sighed, "There is a difference between a compliment and a thinly veiled insult. Though I suppose we have been pecking at each other so long, spent so much time focused on being competitive, we no longer know the difference."

Gunther thought about that for a moment. "I guess you are right. I apologize."

She blinked. "I… accept your _very_ kind apology,"

"I appreciate your acceptance? That is...ugh." Gunther rubbed the back of his neck. "This is difficult, Jane. _Tedious_ to the point of insanity." He could already feel the beginnings of a headache.

"Yes, Gunther. It is." She agreed. "I assume it will take practice. However, it is your turn to compliment me."

"Well… you are certainly doing a good job of staying on task."

She laughed, but it did not seem malicious. "How kind of you to notice. You can be quite funny when you want to. You know, I have been meaning tell you how excellent your archery has been of late. Top notch."

Two compliments in one, and acknowledgement of his superior archery skills? There was something he could get behind. Though his archery was _always_ top-notch. "As has your shield work. I barely landed a blow at all yesterday."

"Ah yes!" They were rolling now. "It was quite difficult given your outstanding footwork. I felt like you had me on the run the entire time."

He dipped his head in acknowledgement. "To the contrary, Jane. You have always been the faster. You could run circles around me." She _could_ too, _and_ dodge his attacks as though he were standing still.

"Well, I would have to, Gunther. Keep you on your toes." She gave him a winning smile and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "You are the only other squire who can actually present some sort of challenge."

A warm, uncomfortable feeling bloomed in his stomach. After a moment he said, "You do me too much credit. There are certain… arenas… in which I hardly feel I challenge you at all."

Jane's brow furrowed. "How so? - I do not understand." She looked at her dirtied hands, and after a moment's thought, pulled up her collar to scrub at her face.

"Book learning, for one. You -" he looked away for a moment, then back. "You study harder than I do. You always have."

She looked genuinely surprised. "Only because I _have_ to, Gunther…you are smarter than I am. Or at least… more intuitive about things that I have to think about."

"That is not… no. You _are_ smart. _And_ intuitive. And the most dedicated squire here. You always make me try harder, try to do better, to _be_ b-" He stammered to a halt, looking suddenly horrified.

There was a long uncomfortable silence as she processed his blundering, _vomitous_ over-share. He felt his embarrassment keenly - when was the last time he had been so ...open? With _anyone_ , nevermind _Jane_? He was only supposed to _compliment_ her, not make an arse of himself. He could _feel_ his defenses, meager as they were, starting to shore back up under the creeping, tingling pain of his discomfort.

Gunther cleared his throat. "It is your turn, Jane."

"Um..." Her surprise had left her gaping at him like a large, dull carp. Gunther did not think she would appreciate the comparison. "Thank you?"

"Very polite." He snapped, his agitation still burning. "It is still your turn."

Her look of surprise morphed into one of exasperation. "Well, you...uh...you...have really improved your riding as of late. The animals do not seem half so annoyed."

Gunther crossed his arms. "The horses love me. The horses have _always_ loved me. I bring them apples from my _sweetheart's_ cart, after all."

"Hmmm…" she hummed, "You do seem to have the ladies eating out of your hand. Horses included."

"Yes, well… on the subject of eating… you have excellent table manners. Best of all the squires here. Even those without teeth. And not at all manly."

She flushed a bit. "And you, eating at the table rather than sulking in a corner by yourself. Such a _pleasant_ change."

Gunther's eyes narrowed to slits. "Oh yes, well the company _is_ much more inviting of late. And never more so than when you and Dragon are keeping our borders safe - elsewhere."

Jane crossed her arms and leaned back onto the wall. "Truly you are a charmer, Gunther. Because no one inspires me to volunteer for more patrols than you. Your… solid work ethic, and all."

"I am pleased you have noticed." His voice rose in pitch, it was easy, so _horribly_ familiar and _comfortable_ to affect his father's haughty tone. "Truly your nose is often so high in the air, I thought it might have escaped you."

She tilted her head to the side. "Hm… I think, perhaps, no matter how hard I search, I will not find a compliment in that statement, Gunther."

" _Fine._ " He ran a hand through his hair. "All right, um - I noticed you helping Pepper the other day. She was looking uncommonly tired, even for her, and it was… kind of you."

Jane rolled her eyes. "Pepper is my _friend._ " She sighed and was silent while she searched for her next compliment. "Alright… When we had that tracking exercise the other day, you did a champion job discerning the different kinds of scat. Truly your attention to detail was astounding."

"Thank you for saying so, although I am sure my knowledge of the subject is no greater than your own."

"Har." She gave him a nasty look.

"It's your turn, Jane." Gunther crossed his arms.

"So it is." Jane stood and kicked at a pile of something wet.

"Well? Giving up so _soon?_ "

" _No-"_ she hissed between clenched teeth. After a moment she said, "That repair you made to the catapult was top notch - it functioned perfectly for almost a week before it broke all over again. I've never seen Sir Ivon so frustrated." She gave him an obnoxious, gloating grin. "Remind me, was he happy to lose - _again?_ "

"He was not, and the loss hurt - certainly - but not as much as that meal you made on our last march. I think you managed to put us all off mutton forever - though I will compliment you on curing squire Robert of his long-standing constipation."

"Oh, you are too kind, truly - I imagined you would be thankful for the help - I had noticed you were getting a bit… thick… around the middle. Now you cut a _fine_ form in your new doublet - all excessive padding aside."

Gunther's fingers twitched in response. He repressed the urge to smooth them along his doublet. "Well, you do know I strive to look my best for you." Gunther searched for his next ...compliment.

Oh, who was he kidding? Certainly not _Jane._

"I noticed your singing voice has improved a great deal - I never know when when we will all be regaled with an impromptu performance. Just the other day I was _certain_ I heard you serenading the princess, but alas, it was just a goat in heat."

She scowled, angry now. "I _do not_ sound like a goat."

He should stop, he should stop his traitorous mouth before things tumbled _completely_ out of control. "I did not say you did. I said the goat sounded like _you._ "

She stared at him, seething. Her mouth twitched as she tried desperately not to rise to his goading. "This… exercise… is _far_ more difficult than I expected."

" _You_ are difficult." _Damn._ Too far.

Jane gave up any remaining pretense of niceties. "I suppose you would know, being smarter than I am." She practically spat the words out.

"I would - unlike you, I cannot get by on my looks alone. How nice it must be to rely on a pretty face to get what you want."

"And I suppose all that pretty money of yours doesn't hurt either?" she asked, condescension all but _dripping_ from her words.

 _Who did she think she was?_

"Money? What _money?_ "

"Oh, like you don't know. You and that crook of a father of yours! You can buy your way into anything, even if it is not deserved."

"Like my squire's training, you mean?" He growled.

"I am sure I said no such thing, but if the shoe fits-" she spread her hands and shrugged before continuing, "Besides, we all know if something is low-quality, overpriced, or appears to be stolen goods - it is a good bet the _Merchant_ was involved."

"How dare you say such things about my father!" He was nearly screeching. "What about _your_ mother? Is there _anything_ she will not stick her nose into? Could she _be_ any more of a gossip? If there was ever a more pathetic social-climbing blabbermouth, I've certainly never seen one."

Jane shot up, and screamed, " _WHAT did you say about my mother?_!"

* * *

Smithy had finished repairing Rake's pile of tools, fixed Pepper's largest pot, tightened the handles of the practice swords, and begun the process of creating new shoes for the horses when he heard a loud thud.

He paused, waiting to see if the noise would repeat. Sometimes the horses would kick in their stalls - Smithy made a note to check their legs for mites.

It was amazing how productive he could be without the constant distraction of Jane and Gunther's bickering; with them mucking the stables as punishment, it was likely he'd finish early, and possibly have part of the next morning off. He'd just begun his work again when the thump sounded again. He set down his hammer, and turned towards the stable door. There was a third thump, followed by a crash and the nervous snorts of the horses.

Just what was going on in there? Had a dog wandered into the stable? Where were Jane and Gunther? Had they left already and he had somehow missed them?

There was a rattling sound - the tack being disturbed - and he had reached out grasp the handle when the whole door shuddered - reverberating with the force of some impact.

Well. That was ...odd.

Smithy took a cautious step back and retrieved one of the practice swords. Weapon in hand - he was no swordsman, but he could certainly land a heavy blow - he leaned forward to cautiously, quietly, to open the door.

The door swung wide and Smithy's eyes adjusted to the dim light in time to see Gunther drop down to the floor, spin, and kick Jane's legs out from under her.

She went flying and landed heavily on her back into a pile of hay. Smithy was sure it would have knocked the wind out of her, but with no discernable pause, she rolled easily to the side, scooped up a handful of manure, and lobbed it at Gunther's face.

Gunther slapped it away - shite went flying everywhere - but Jane used the distraction to pounce. She launched herself at Gunther, caught him about the middle with both arms, throwing them _both_ into a stall door.

They both went down - rolling, kicking, punching. It was like watching them spar in the yard - except without the watchful eyes of Sir Theodore and Sir Ivon, neither combatant was pulling their punches - they weren't just sparring, they were _trying_ to hurt each other.

And succeeding.

Gunther certainly had the advantage of size and height, but Jane was quick and - Smithy flinched at the sight - she fought _dirty._

They rolled over again, Gunther straddled her stomach, pinning both arms beneath him. Smithy was _sure_ that would be the end of it, but Jane bucked up hard and - did she just _bite_ him?

 _Yikes._

Jane scrambled up and leapt on Gunther's shoulders, knocking them down. Both were hissing and cursing, panting and bruised, bloodied and covered head to toe in horse droppings.

With an almost casual air, Smithy retrieved one of the horse buckets and without any warning at all, threw it at the snarling pair.

They stopped immediately, and stared at him in shocked, dripping silence. Up until the cold splash of water hit them, neither had even noticed his arrival.

"Why," Smithy asked calmly, "by all that is holy and good, are you two fighting _now_?"

Gunther snarled and bared his teeth, "SHE SAID I WAS SMART!"

"Yeah?" hissed Jane. She made to throw a fake punch at Gunther, causing him flinch. "HE SAID I WAS PRETTY!"

Smithy rolled his eyes. Well, _obviously._

His question answered, Smithy pivoted on his heel, pulled the door shut, and quietly latched it closed.

* * *

 _A/N: Sorry for the delay in getting this out! I was completely absorbed in preparations for Janther week. Janther week will be January 8-14th, and I hope everyone decides to participate!_

 _You can read more about it on Biscuitweevil's and Batbladder's blog at jantherweek . tumblr . com._


	14. Confluence

Spring was, by far, his least favorite of the seasons.

Summer was blistering hot, dry, and for reasons unknown to him, seemed to encourage _everyone_ to complain about said hot, dry conditions. As though commiserating about sunburns and sweaty britches somehow made it better.

It didn't.

Winter was worse than summer, because there was so much _more_ to make him - and everyone else - miserable. There were red noses, chapped lips, cracked fingers, dry skin, and any number of supposed cold-related injuries from which to choose. And everyone, _everyone_ was constantly sick.

But spring?

Spring had them both beat.

With _spring_ he had the very real chance of experiencing either extreme within a matter of _minutes._ An early heat wave when he was still kitted out for winter - or having had _weeks_ of warm weather, suddenly finding himself caught out in freezing sleet or an April hailstorm.

Spring was the _worst._

Not that Gunther was given to complaining. Of course not.

Still, when he and Jane had been assigned a short mission to a neighboring province, _mid-_ spring, he had sorely been tempted to complain. They were to deliver a missive, by _horseback_ of all things _,_ from the king to the army's main training grounds to the east. It was busy work, really, an annoying task which could have been assigned to _any_ of the mid-level squires or messengers.

But it hadn't been, it had been assigned to Jane and himself, though why it was necessary for him to tag along, he could not say. Jane could have completed the trip on Dragon in a quarter of the time. Probably less.

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) his knighthood loomed ever closer - it was just over the horizon - a year, _two_ at most - and Gunther was fairly certain Sir Theodore would not look kindly on any churlish grousing.

 _Knights_ didn't complain about the weather. Or terribly annoying tasks with terribly annoying partners.

Even if the trip had been _miserable._

Their travel had been plagued by all manner of changeable, spring-ish weather. Wind and rain combined with sudden bouts of _blazing_ sunshine, creating a sticky, _humid_ three-day trek to the training grounds. The rapid changes in temperature had them both peeling off layers, only to pile them back on - damp from the previous batch of showers - just to peel them off again.

It was difficult to believe - he thought perhaps the world was coming to an end - but even Jane seemed to have lost her usual equanimity, and had stopped trying to convince him how _lovely_ the early rains were.

* * *

They'd arrived at the training grounds to deliver their message, only to find themselves strangely unwelcome. Yes, they were bedraggled, probably smelled of mildew, wet leather, and baked sweat, but they weren't _filthy_. They'd ridden - only dismounting to camp - which meant they'd managed to avoid the worst of the mud, and it was not as if the men in the camp weren't suffering the same effects from the weather as he and Jane.

Yet when they arrived, they'd been greeted with the bare minimum of acceptable military cordality; which was to say, next to none.

As for the missive itself, as far as Gunther knew, the news they had delivered was just a basic, monthly update. An unimportant list of orders and request for a general accounting of men, equipment, and needed supplies. Nothing which should result in such ...hostility.

Gunther had been handed a hastily written note in reply, and ordered - with unnecessary rancor - to return forthwith.

The command would not have rankled - despite the tone with which it was delivered - had they been given time to rest, refresh their horses, or spend the night in a proper barrack. But the commanding officer had taken one, long, contemptuous look at Jane, sneered, and ordered them both off his training grounds, with all _expedient_ haste.

He did not want the two squires - he did not want _Jane_ \- anywhere near his camp.

It confused Gunther, the man's reaction; no one at the castle treated Jane with anything but the same basic respect due to all the squires. Or, in the case of the knights themselves, friendly, teasing, _dis_ respect.

 _Sure_ there were men who did not like having a female squire, but such opinions usually didn't rear their ugly heads until the men were _well_ into their cups. _Those_ men - men _much_ older than Gunther's own training group - were usually failed squires themselves. Individuals who had not been able to complete the rigorous tests required to become a knight, and had landed themselves in the castle guard, instead.

He'd always just _assumed_ their attitudes were in part, fueled by jealousy.

Apparently not.

Besides himself, no one, _no one_ , at the castle treated Jane like anything other than another one of the squires.

Gunther gave her hell because - well, she was _Jane._

Jane betrayed no emotion at the sudden dismissal, almost as if she'd been expecting it. Gunther wondered if when she delivered missives on her own with Dragon, the kingdom's generals were _half_ so polite.

He didn't know how to ask.

All rudeness aside, the dismissal itself would have been bearable if the sun - having spent the last three days making only brief appearances - had not chosen that afternoon to chase off the clouds, permanently. Their miserable part of the kingdom went from sporadic spring rains to _punishing_ summer sun in the span of an hour, leaving them sweltering in their sodden armor and padding.

Gunther couldn't help but feel like one of Pepper's overcooked, mushy vegetables, forgotten and left to steam in a pot.

* * *

He and Jane had _both_ had better days.

After leaving the garrison, they'd decided to head back towards the castle immediately, riding well past sunset. Well, _Jane_ had decided. _They_ hadn't discussed it, hadn't discussed _anything_ ; they'd just set off silently, setting their horses to a fast step, Jane tight-lipped and grim. He didn't bother to initiate any conversation - he knew that look of barely repressed anger - if she responded to him at all, her words would be clipped and rude.

They made camp after the moon rose. Gunther tossed and turned, unable to achieve a comfortable position no matter how hard he tried, finding it hard to sleep in blankets - hell, _skin -_ which smelled like mildew.

Jane must not have slept any better than he did, because she'd woken up in a rare mood. They hadn't bothered eating breakfast, just packed up their still-damp gear and set out, eating hardtack and dried meat in the saddle.

Uncomfortable, tired, _moist -_ tempers were high and the insults were biting. Perhaps _too_ much so.

It started off normally - a conversation which devolved into ceaseless bickering - a common enough means, between the two of them, to pass the time. He hadn't really meant any of his insults, he rarely did, but it was a comfortable pattern and it was almost an automatic response to her own goading.

He'd just finished haranguing her for her shoddy bowmanship - a favorite topic of his - when Jane swung about in her saddle, cutting him off.

"If I am so terrible at everything, " she spat out, her annoyance boiling over into anger, "perhaps you should request a new partner. One who is up to your unreasonably high, _snobbish_ standards? Someone who is _worthy_ of being associated with the the great, the esteemed, the _perfect_ Gunther Breech? Because clearly, I am _not._ "

Gunther's temper flared.

He was _not_ a snob.

"Well, at least I shall achieve knighthood based on _some_ form of merit." The familiar mocking tone was replaced by cool disdain. "My title will be _earned,_ Jane. No one is going to hand me a knighthood out of pity for my gender." Gunther threw his hands up in the air. "Jane Turnkey, the _great_ dragonslayer. Too contentious to make a decent wife, to mad to stick in a convent."

He wasn't even sure where the words came from, they were not something he'd ever actually thought, even in passing. Certainly no one at the castle gave her preferential treatment because of her gender. If anything, they expected _more._

Regret rose from his stomach - bitter and tasting of bile - as soon as the words left his mouth. He didn't mean them, not any more than he meant _any_ of the creative insults he lobbed at her with regularity, but before he could apologize for his ill-begotten words, before he could _take them back_ , she was gone.

Jane drew a hitching, hollow breath, then hissing between her teeth, turned in her saddle, and kicked her horse into a full gallop.

Stunned at her reaction as much as the vehemence in his own words, Gunther watched her go.

 _Hells_ , what had he been _thinking?_

He _hadn't_ been thinking. He hadn't been thinking _at all._

And that little sound she had made before she took off - it was almost as if she had bitten down on her own cheek to stifle a… what? A _cry?_

Had she been _crying?_

 _Oh, hell._

With a kick to his own horse, Gunther set off after her.

It was not easy, catching up with Jane. Other imagined flaws aside, she was a _fine_ horsewoman and moved with a grace Gunther himself could never hope to match. She had the advantage of being lighter than he was, and her horse was much like herself; long-limbed, agile, and swift. Jane stood in her stirrups, leaning low over her horse's neck. She looked like she did when she rode Dragon; completely at one with her mount as she gave the horse its head.

Gunther had almost reached her, had opened his mouth to call out his apology when her horse stumbled.

In that split second he saw her death clearly; his mind's eye showing him with graphic, _horrifying_ clarity Jane slamming into the ground, her neck snapping on impact, her slim form trampled beneath her horse's sharp hooves. His heart _stopped_ , his body plunged into an instant cold sweat, a strangled cry lodging in his throat.

As Gunther watched in helpless anguish, Jane's forward momentum pitched her out of her saddle, up and over the horse's outstretched neck. Only her quick reflexes and a strong grip - both honed from long years of training and riding on Dragon during unpredictable winds - prevented her from being thrown up and over.

Instead of being launched forward as he had feared, she lost her seat and was thrown high up onto the horse's neck. She managed to tangle one hand deep into the horse's mane and her body slid downward, off to one side, as the horse continued barreling forward. She curled her legs inward and attempted to hook one back over, but failed; her angle was wrong, the horse's movements too frantic. After a moment both of her heels were being pulled through the muddy grass - one of her hands still clutching the saddle, the other buried deep in the horse's mane.

Her weight dragged the mare's head down, sideways, and pulled the horse, and those thundering hooves, with it.

She may not have been thrown, but she was in real, _imminent,_ danger of being trampled to death.

Gunther was close enough he could see the strained look on her face. It was twisted up in pained concentration while she tried to keep herself from falling beneath the horse's tread. He was not close enough to help. He was desperate to reach her - to do something, _anything_ \- but he was too far, his own horse too lumbering and slow. Then the strength in her arms failed her and she slipped lower, and he _saw_ the flash of realization as it crossed her face. She could not stop the horse in her position, and burdened by her weight, the mare was moments away from stumbling and landing atop her.

Gunther had just enough time to shout, " _JANE, NO!"_ before she released the horse with both hands. She pushed off as best she could and - _Oh, Jesus -_ narrowly avoided being brained by the mare's flashing hooves. She landed _hard_ on the wet ground, rolled twice before coming to a stop on her side, her arms wrapped around her head in protection.

Gunther was beside her in a second, and did not wait for his own horse to stop before vaulting himself off. He hit the ground beside her and went to his knees - his mind did not register the pain of impact. "Jane. _Jane!_ " He grabbed her arms unthinkingly and tried to pry them from her covered face. "Are you alright? _JANE!?"_

Jane took a deep, shuddering breath, and released it in a great _whoosh_ of air. She flung her arms and legs straight out, and stared at the sky.

"JANE!"

She pressed one muddied, bloody hand to her forehead - her eyes were still wet from her earlier tears.

"Jane," he choked out, his chest still tight with fear, "I thought you were dead for sure." He wasn't sure what to do. Check her for injuries? Wrap the cut on her palm? She'd probably slap him. Something wet dripped off his chin - he brushed it away with a trembling hand.

She stopped her study of the sky and turned to look at him. "And here I was under the impression you did not care - maybe I should apologize for ruining your opportunity for a new partner."

" _Jesus,_ Jane. _Of course_ I care." He scrubbed at the wetness on his cheeks. _What gave her that impression?_ If he didn't care, he wouldn't pay attention to her _at all_. "What the hell would I do with a new partner? What makes you think I would even want one?"

She stared at him for a moment, completely flummoxed. "Perhaps the _years_ of teasing, the taunts, the fighting, the _black eye_ you gave me?"

He tried to remember. "You _bit_ me."

"You deserved it." She countered.

"I did not, _you were -_ " He stopped. "We are doing it again."

Jane struggled to sit up and grunted with the effort. Injured or not, her sides - and her arms - and her back and legs- and _holy hell,_ he felt the fear, the _panic_ again as he remembered _-_ would probably be sore for days.

He tried not to think about it.

Gunther grasped her hand in his own and used the other help her to a sitting position. He was surprised when she did not try to bat him away. "Are you sure you are alright?"

She wouldn't meet his eyes. "I am alright, Gunther. I do not think anything is hurt. Except for my pride, perhaps." She sat quietly for a few moments before, "Did you mean what you said? You do not want someone else?" She sounded different than she normally did. Odd. Strange.

Small, _vulnerable_.

"I - I - _No. Never._ " he said, after a moment's hesitation. Had the thought even crossed his mind?

"It would be easier for you, you know." She looked down and brushed at some of the mud on her uniform. As though erasing that one small patch would make a difference to her overall disheveled state. "The other men would not treat you like -" she stopped her fidgeting and her breath hitched. "- like they do me. I am used to it - mostly - though they tend to be a little more polite when Dragon is around, but you -" she swallowed, an attempt to contain a fresh batch of tears. "I thought it would be different if you were there. If you took the lead."

 _How poorly did they treat her when she was on her own?_

It had never occurred to him to wonder at how Jane would be received, by those who did not _know_ her. Those who did not _understand her -_

But did he? Did he actually _understand?_ He _thought_ he knew, but then he'd opened his big, fat, stupid mouth and -

\- and she'd almost _died._

Almost _died_ because he'd poked at the sorest spot available. One he hadn't even realized _existed._

He really was a dung brain.

"I should _not_ have said what I did. I did not mean it - I do not even know where such a thing _came_ from. I - I was _wrong._ So very, very, completely and utterly wrong." He waited until she looked at him. "I owe you an apology, Jane."

She blinked at him. She did not bother to stop the tears which had finally escaped her control. "Thank you. Though I think I owe you an apology as well."

Gunther couldn't have been more surprised if she had sprouted wings and flown off into the clouds. "What?" What could she possibly have to apologize for?

"I said," she continued, not bothering to wipe the tears before they dripped into her lap, "I owe you an apology. I should not have said what I said. I did not mean it." She huffed, annoyed with… herself? He couldn't tell. "I never do, you know. Mean the things I say. That is - I suppose I _do_ mean them, in the sense that I only say them to rile you - Oh, I am making a mess of things, like I always do." She wiped a limp strand of hair out of her eyes. It left another muddy track along her brow.

He thought he understood, or was at least, beginning to. "Riled or not, I should not have called you mad. Or unmarriageable."

Jane gave a humorless little laugh. "I am not sure you were entirely incorrect, Gunther. Maybe that was why it hurt so much. I would _have_ to be mad to put up with… well, you know."

He pulled out his handkerchief, and handed it to her. She wiped at the tear tracks and blew heavily into it.

Jane sighed and handed it back to him. "Gunther, can we just start over?"

He balled the offending fabric up and grimaced before he stuffed it into his pocket. "This conversation, or the whole day?"

"No. No. I am not making myself clear." She rose to her feet, and at his confused expression, gave him a hand up. "Can we please just _start over?_ I am tired of the constant bickering, the fighting, the stupid competition. Ok, maybe not the competition, sometimes that is fun. What I am saying is… oh _maggots."_

She squared her shoulders and thrust her hand out before her, "How do you do? I am Jane Turnkey, squire. Too contentious to make a proper wife, too mad to be locked away in a nunnery. I should very much like us to be friends."

Gunther scowled at her outstretched hand. What was she _talking_ about? Weren't they friends?

He wasn't sure how to respond. "I should _not_ have said that." He cleared his throat, embarrassed and asked, "Aren't we friends?"

"I - _are_ we, Gunther?" She looked very unsure.

Gunther looked at her face, then at her hand, then at her face again. Her eyes were sincere, but her mouth was turned down in an anxious frown. _He_ had made her feel this way - small, insecure, _weak -_ with his callous words.

The longer he waited to respond, lost in his own musings, the further her face fell.

She shifted anxiously.

He could insult her again, walk away with another biting, curt remark, or just ignore her completely. He could end their partnership right _now_ with hardly any effort at all - but that was not what he wanted - not even close. What he wanted, what he _needed_ , was for her to accept _his_ apology. To be a friend to _her._

He took her hand and gave it a sharp shake. "Nice to meet you Jane. I am Gunther Breech, son of no one important save a disreputable merchant, who has tried my whole life to purchase the affectation of respectability. I am afraid it has made me a bit of a snob. I should very much like to accept your friendship, provided you are willing to overlook my own - numerous - shortcomings."

He let her go and laughed at her shocked expression.

"Jane?" he ventured, when she did not say anything.

"Ah, I - yes." Her smile was soft, but genuine. "Only if you overlook mine as well - though I will endeavor not to be so argumentative. So quick to take offense." She let go of his hand. "I will also try to say sorry," her smile went sly, "provided an apology is actually necessary."

Gunther laughed at that. "In consideration of your efforts, I will try not rile you so often. Though I fear it will be a hard habit to break."

"Indeed!" She stepped forward and gave him a lightning-quick hug. She stepped back, an embarrassed look on her face. "Champion! Now…" she looked around, "Perhaps, _friend,_ you could be so kind as to help me find my horse?"


	15. Partners in Crime

"This was _not_ my fault."

"No," Gunther agreed. "No, it was not."

It _wasn't_. There was _no way_ that this - _this_ ridiculous situation could be construed as her fault. "I do not blame you in the slightest."

She nudged his side with her bandaged, slung arm. "It was not your fault either."

He supposed that was true as well. Still...

Gunther took a deep breath - or as deep a breath as he could manage with his injured side - before answering. "I know, Jane."

"The horses will be _fine._ " She reassured, though he wasn't sure just who she was trying to comfort. Maybe them both? "You do not need to worry. I dare say they know the way back to the castle better than we do." She stumbled over a non-existent rock, nearly toppling over in an attempt to right herself.

Gunther tightened his grip on her waist, using his greater mass to arrest her forward momentum before pulling her back up against himself. He sometimes forgot, when faced with the giant force that was her personality, that Jane was actually _smaller_ than he was.

"Thank you." Jane contemplated the road before them. "I am just grateful we still had our packs."

Gunther hummed his agreement. They had been rather lucky in that respect; both had managed to escape with their packs and weapons intact. They _were_ without food, and only had the one water skin between them, which wasn't ideal; but they were close enough to the castle that they weren't going to starve. Of far greater importance was the fact that without their packs and the medical kits contained therein, they'd have needed to cannibalize their uniforms for bandages, which would have left them shivering come nightfall. Their tents _and_ blankets still being on the thrice-damned horses.

"Why are you so… grumpy, then?" She asked.

Gunther frowned. "I am _injured._ "

"Well, yes. We both are. But you are also grumpy."

"I am not _grumpy_ , Jane."

"Absolutely, you are. I think it might be your natural state." She readjusted the arm around his shoulder, levering herself up higher so she could more easily lean against him. "Gunther gets sick: he is peevish. Gunther sustains an injury: he is snappish _and_ cross. Gunther loses a fight: cantankerous as hell. You are snappish, cross, and _grumpy_."

He didn't have to look at her to tell she was smiling.

Gunther's frown deepened. "I have never lost a fight."

She continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Gunther _and_ Jane - because let's not forget I was there as well - somehow, inexplicably, with the black luck of the very Devil himself, manage to -"

He cut her off before she could finish. "Do not even say it, Jane. Do. Not. It is too humiliating."

Jane gave a small, breathy laugh at his discomfort, but it was without any real humor. She was just as embarrassed by the whole situation as he was. "It is." As close as she was - pressed fully against him - Gunther could feel the heat of her blush. She cleared her throat. "Well, I for one am not looking forward to explaining all this to Sir Theodore."

" _All this"_ being their general state of injurious disarray and disheveled appearance. Between the two of them they had one sliced forehead, three bruised ribs, a twisted ankle, a sprained elbow _and_ wrist, and zero horses.

It was going to be a long - laborious - limp home.

Gunther focused on the road before them - doing so made it easier to block out the aches and pains - _and_ the memory of how they got them.

They'd made it another league, perhaps league and a half, before she spoke again.

"We cannot tell them the truth." She breathed.

"We have to." He responded, automatically. Partially because it was in his nature to be contrary, partially because it had not occurred to him to lie about their current situation.

"No, we do not, Gunther." She countered. "We _can not_ tell them the truth."

Gunther pondered the veracity of that before answering. "We _can_ , Jane and we absolutely should -" he took a deep breath before releasing it, " - but I will admit I do not want to."

He really, _really_ , did not. They would never, _ever_ live it down. _Ever._ Not this month, this year, not once they received their knighthoods… Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if a man at his funeral raised his tankard to say, _Do you remember that time - ?_

Gunther _definitely_ did not want this little _incident_ to be part of his epitaph.

Of _all_ the things to be remembered for.

No, thank you.

He adjusted his grip on her side. "Are you suggesting we lie? You do not _lie_ , Jane. Not ever."

"I… well… that is not _exactly_ true." She pinched his shoulder at his surprised, gaping mouth. "Oh, do not look so shocked - and wipe that look off your face before I find a fish hook. There are _plenty_ of situations in which it would be improper or hurtful for me to be honest." She lifted her arm - the one in the sling, not the one around his shoulders - and gingerly brushed her hair out of her eyes. "Though what I am suggesting is not so much a lie, but instead an… alternative truth. One which would save us both some embarrassment."

Jane and her _ideas_. They never ended well.

She looked at him expectantly. As though he was just going to smile and nod and go along with whatever crazy plan she concocted.

It was a fool's road. Surely the gilded path to damnation itself. He _could not._

He would not.

His traitorous mouth said, "I am listening."

 _Damnit._

"We would have to agree - of course - and work out the details, but the less that is said, the better. We would both also have to swear to never, _ever_ reveal the truth. Yes?"

It wasn't the _best_ solution - it was a _terrible_ idea - dishonest and doomed to fail, certainly, but - "Agreed... _For now._ " Jane made a little sound of relief. "But if you ever -"

She shook her head vigorously. "I will not."

"Ever."

"I. Will. Not."

They continued on; Jane thinking - he could almost _hear_ her thoughts as they swirled around her frizzy head - while Gunther took careful steps as not to hurt his ribs or cause Jane to step wrong on her damaged ankle.

After a while she started with, "Perhaps we could tell Sir Theodore bandits stole our horses, and we were injured trying to reclaim them?"

Gunther thought for a moment. "And what happens when the horses come back to the castle on their own?"

She must not have thought that far, because her mouth twisted up in deliberation. "We say the bandits had a change of heart and set them free?"

Gunther sighed, that would _never_ work. "Sir Ivon might believe you, but not Sir Theodore."

"Mudslide?" She ventured, then amended, "No, rockslide. The ground rumbled, but we managed to get out of the way, just in time…"

"Our uniforms are still too clean for that, and I am in _no_ mood to roll around in the dirt."

"Wolves?" She asked. "Maybe we were chased by a pack of wolves, one of us was thrown and we had to take to the trees. We had to cling to the branches for a whole night, while they yipped and howled beneath our feet."

Maybe. It was certainly more plausible than a rockslide, but -

Gunther shook his head. "The wolves would not have left us alone, and neither we nor the horses have any bites or scratches of note."

Jane grumbled under her breath. It sounded suspiciously like, "I might bite you."

Surely he had misheard, because he was _quite_ sure they had agreed not to argue like that anymore. At least, not so ...aggressively _._

"Maybe we were attacked by a wild boar? Maybe TWO wild boars and a snake. With a bobcat. The bobcat had the snake in its mouth."

Gunther laughed in surprise - the sudden movement caused a grinding, stabbing pain in his left side. Perhaps his ribs were more than bruised.

 _Alright then, no more laughing_.

He took a slow breath. "Quite the menagerie there, Jane."

"What about pirates? Brigands. I see great potential in naval warfare and sea shanties."

He almost laughed again, and winced at the pain in his side. Now she was just being _ridiculous_.

"We could say - because pickings are slim on the ocean this time of year - a group of pirates ventured inland for their raids. Then they came across us, saw your potential as a hostage, and captured you in hopes of extracting a high ransom from your father. Unfortunately for them, I devised a cunning plan of rescue, and through some land-lubbery swash-buckling, I snatched you away from their nefarious clutches."

"Pirates, Jane? We are _nowhere_ near the ocean."

"That is why it works. There is no way for anyone to prove or disprove our story."

"Mmmm." She had a good point there, even if her story - all her stories - were thusfar _complete_ malarkey. Still, he could play along.

"Try again. I think you can do better than _pirates._ "

She stepped funny and jarred her ankle. She let out a little hiss of pain. "Monsters?" she offered, after starting forward again.

"Fanged or hooved?" he asked.

Jane shrugged. "Both."

"Dragon would start a forest fire trying to flush them out for revenge. Or invite them to take tea. Either way: the kingdom has to deal with a forest fire. I do not see that ending well for anyone. _Especially_ not us."

They kept walking, leaning on one another, the castle seemingly no closer despite their shared exhaustion and the disappearing sun. Jane's suggestions became more and more ridiculous as they went on… Gunther suspected she was _trying_ to make him laugh.

"Gypsies?" she offered with a smile.

Now that was just _unfair._ He _loved_ the travelling caravans. "And since when have _any_ of the traveling players in the kingdom been even _remotely_ dangerous?"

"Not dangerous, of course not. But they _were_ in a desperate need of two more actors, so we volunteered to help them out."

"We did, did we?" Oh, this would be good.

"Of course, I know how you jump at the chance to lend a hand where a hand is needed." She giggled at his look. "You played Tristram and I played Iseult, and the play was so realistic, so heart wrenchingly beautiful, the audience rushed the stage and we were nearly trampled in the crush. We were lucky to escape with our lives."

"Do you sing in this play?" he asked.

Jane sighed wistfully. "Beautifully so."

He chuckled, careful not to twist his ribs. "No one is going to believe you then."

Jane huffed and pouted, pretending to be insulted. "Perhaps _you_ played Iseult, and sang a song so sweet, the men in the audience fell instantly in love with you, and I had to beat them off with a stick."

Gunther stuck out his tongue. She _was_ trying to make him laugh - _minx_ \- but he would _not_ give into her goading. "No, Jane."

"Well, I do not hear YOU coming up with any bright ideas!"

Gunther thought for a moment. He wasn't as… _creative_ as Jane was. This sort of thing was really her purview, not his. "We fell into a river."

"You cannot swim," she countered.

Well that was easy enough, if not embarrassing in its own right. "You had to save me."

"Which river?" She asked.

It was a good question, one Sir Theodore would surely ask, as there were none in the immediate vicinity. If they were to _name_ a river, then there would be questions as to just _why_ they had ventured so far off their assigned patrol. No rivers then.

"I think you can do better." She said, honestly. Jane gave him a smile. "Though if you _would_ like to learn how to swim, I would be happy to teach you."

 _No. No, thank you._ That was the _last_ thing he needed. She'd drown him _for sure._

Or her mother would, if she ever found out about such an _improper_ use of Jane's time.

Partner or not, _friends_ or not, Jane was still _female_ \- and he was still, well, _male._

Gunther snuck a glance at where her pale skin disappeared into the collar of her shirt. A bruise was barely visible at the edge of the fabric. Yikes - that _had_ to have hurt. He glanced away, embarrassed.

No, there would be no swimming lessons in his future. At least not from Jane.

"Perhaps." They walked for a bit. The road was even enough, but the way was slow going. They'd have to make camp soon - unless someone from the castle or a passing trader happened to pass by. "Bar fight?"

Jane squeaked a little, shaking her head in fierce negation. "Sir Theodore would be _furious_ if that happened again."

"My horse stumbled?"

"And mine as well?" Now she sounded annoyed, which was silly; at least _his_ suggestions were vaguely believable.

 _Pirates._ Really.

Jane grumbled, "I do not think you are very good at this, Gunther."

He was not - but then again, neither was she. Maybe honesty _was_ the best policy and they should just give up and toss their dignity to the wind. At least in this particular case.

"Could we not just tell Sir Theodore the truth?" he asked, already knowing her answer.

Jane gave him a scathing look. "Is that what you want?"

Gunther didn't even have to think about it. "No."

"Well then could you actually _try_ to come up with something helpful, beef brain!?"

He _was._

Gunther mulled it over. "Perhaps after wooing a young maiden, I woke to find myself the innocent victim of her - hitherto unknown but nonetheless _enraged_ \- husband."

Jane laughed heartily at this, letting go of his shoulder to press her uninjured hand to her left side. "Oh… oh… I did not even know that hurt." She took another deep breath then burst into a fit of giggles which were interspersed with the occasional " _Ow!"_

"I do not see what is _quite_ so funny, Jane." Gunther stepped back, letting go of her, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"You are… you are just," she said between fits of laughter, tottering dangerously on her one good leg, "Oh Gunther, you are just so terribly _full_ of yourself."

Gunther was offended. Well and _truly_ insulted by her mirth. He pressed one hand to his chest in indignation. "Am I not handsome enough to turn the head of some pretty town girl?"

Jane snorted, straightening up. "Well of _course_ you are, Gunther," she said, soothingly. She gave his arm a condescending little pat.

"Then why did you laugh at my suggestion?"

"I laughed, and rightly so, at the idea that _anyone_ would believe I would rescue you from such a situation."

Gunther thought this over. Rescuing him from some dough-faced town boy, or over-large, _hulking_ , farmer _would_ be above and beyond the call of their partnership - their _friendship_ \- but he liked the idea of Jane defending his honor. Expression fierce, sword flashing - it'd almost be worth the _endless_ teasing afterwards.

Almost.

He put his arm about her waist and turned them back towards the castle. "So you think I am handsome?"

Jane rolled her eyes and made a _tsk_ sound at the back of her throat. She slipped her arm back over his shoulder and started them forward once more. "Maybe we should just stick with the bobcat with the snake."

It was Gunther's turn to snort. "Champion. But there were _two_ snakes."


	16. Faires, Favors, Friends

"This is stupid, Jane."

Jane gave him one of her more crooked, more _mischievous_ smiles. "It is _,_ but you will love it."

He doubted that. "How do you figure?" Gunther crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back.

"You will, I promise. Just take my word for it. _Trust me._ "

"Oh, ho! No!" Gunther let loose a gale of well-learned, entirely _sarcastic_ laughter. "Definitely not _now. 'Trust me'._ When has that EVER worked out in my favor?"

He'd hit a nerve for sure, because her voice dropped low. "One time, Gunther. ONE TIME - and you act like every single one of my suggestions turns into some terrible adventure."

"They do."

"They do not."

"They DO, Jane."

"Name ONE." She hissed, and waved a finger in his face.

He didn't even have to say it - just leveled an unblinking stare at her.

" _Besides_ that one."

He waited. She'd cave, eventually.

Jane made an unlady-like sound in the back of her throat and slumped forward. "That was _years_ ago. Gunther, you are being ridiculous." She crossed her arms over her own chest, mimicking his stance. A clear indication she was going to to change her tactics. Her eyes narrowed. "Do not tell me you are _afraid_?"

Predictable.

Afraid?

 _Hardly._

"And what, pray tell, could I possibly be afraid of?"

A slow grin spread across her face. " _Losing._ "

He scoffed,"You will not bait me into agreeing."

"I bet I could, given enough time and proper motivation."

"Could not."

"Could too." Jane smiled. No doubt she thought she had him - as if he'd let her manipulate him so easily - though their argument was perfunctory, at best. Jane had won already. He was _here,_ wasn't he? Dragged bodily to the faire grounds, kicking and screaming, despite all manner of perfectly sane reasonings as to _why_ he should not compete with the other boys?

Gunther had just opened his mouth to let loose an additional, if futile, argument - bickering _was_ their favorite pastime, after all - when Smithy and Jester arrived.

"Gunther! How very excellent to see you." Jester gave him a low, sweeping bow. He looked odd somehow, incomplete. It took Gunther a moment to realize the fool was without his hat and his hair, usually hidden, was exposed. It stuck up at all angles looking very much like… his hat. "I imagine this means our fair Jane has convinced you to participate in the games this afternoon?"

"I- uh-" Jester waited patiently. "Yes. Though I am not exactly sure _what_ I should be doing."

Smithy slapped a meaty hand on his back, rocking him forward. "You have nothing to worry about. Jester and I will explain anything you need."

There was no way he could gracefully bow out now, feign illness or claim his father needed his help elsewhere. Not in front of the other boys.

Gunther frowned. He did _not_ like feeling as though he had been _coerced_ somehow. Maneuvered.

Her supposed argument had been a _stalling_ tactic. Gunther didn't need to turn around to confirm his suspicions; he was quite sure Jane was grinning, triumphantly.

* * *

"Rake would not come?" asked Smithy when Pepper appeared, expression sympathetic.

She was flanked by three of the castle maids, all wearing similar exasperated frowns. Anne, Brownyn, and a younger girl Gunther did not know. They were all upset, Pepper most of all. She worried the hem of her apron before throwing her hands up in frustration.

"No, he would not! Every festival, it is the same thing." Her voice dropped in pitch, and taking on a timbre that was eerily like Rake's. " 'The turnips need tending.' or 'These radishes are not going to weed themselves'." She sighed, defeated. "I just find the whole thing ridiculous. To be so upset about the mangel toss."

Gunther didn't understand. "The mangel toss? I would think such a sport would align with his ...interests."

Pepper shook her head sadly. "No, Gunther. It upsets him. He calls it vegetable abuse."

Now he was _really_ confused. "But," he started, trying very hard not to sound like... himself, "-but we _eat_ vegetables. And," he could feel that little crease between his eyebrows, "I thought mangels were for the livestock, anyway?"

It made no sense.

But then, when had Rake _ever_ made sense to Gunther?

Jester shrugged it off. "Rake may have the hands of a gardener, but he has the heart of a poet, or an artist. I know I would be upset if someone took a ballad I composed and turned it into a sea shanty."

Smithy chuckled. "Would you now? I feel like perhaps, that is a challenge."

Jester looked offronted. "You would not dare."

Probably not - but Gunther might. Something to tuck away for later.

Gunther returned his attention to his partner. "Are you going to compete, Jane? Since you have somehow wheedled me into participating?" He couldn't remember her saying if she were - but she was _so_ competitive he couldn't imagine she would miss the opportunity -

"Oh no, only the men are allowed to compete." She said, her excitement apparent. "I will be sitting with the Pepper and the girls cheering you all on."

She didn't sound the slightest bit upset.

He was shocked. _Flabbergasted._ Well and truly struck dumb.

"You - you are not upset? That girls - _women_ -" he stumbled over his words, "that _you_ are unable to compete?"

Jane laughed and dismissed his concerns with a wave of her hand. "Of course not. I could not hope to win at any of the contests anway. Perhaps if they had swordplay or staves - but tests of mere brute strength? I am content enough to leave them up to those better suited."

He could hardly believe what he had heard. Maybe there was some unknown magic at work? Perhaps he had accidentally wandered through the veil and this was some sort of waking dream?

Pepper rose up on her toes, peeking above the crowd as she searched for something. She must have found whatever she was looking for because she dropped back down and hissed at Jane. "Jane, Jane! We have to go get our seats. Do you have it?"

"Yes here-" Jane produced a scrap of reddish gold fabric from somewhere in her tunic and handed it to Pepper. She turned back to Gunther. "Have fun with Jester and Smithy!" and with that, excused herself to join the other girls.

They clustered together, all talking at once in hushed tones and then as one - as if he wasn't already off-balance already - burst into a symphony of high-pitched giggles and squeals. _All_ of them, every single one, _including_ Jane. He rubbed his eyes, thinking maybe he had gone mad, only to pull his hands away in time to see them jump up and down in place, bouncing on their toes in excitement.

They moved off, a frighteningly strange group of collective femininity, heading toward the stands of low bleachers.

He turned back to his male companions. "Was Jane kidnapped by the fae and replaced with a changeling?"

Smithy rolled his eyes and Jester laughed outright. "I suspect, my dear squire, their favorite champion must have arrived. He's a veritable adonis - makes all the girls swoon."

"But," he stuttered, dazed, "Jane's not a _girl._ "

Smithy gave him a pitying look and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Gunther," he said, as though he were speaking to a small child, "I know you spend a lot of time with Jane, doing squirely things with a large group of smelly manboys, and that Jane herself is not given to _acting_ girly most times," he paused for effect, "but I can promise you that Jane is still a _girl._ "

Gunther huffed. "Yes, Smithy, I am aware." But was he? Or was he prone to forgetting? He certainly remembered her pressed against him that one day, during their long limp home. "But she is not given to silly girlishness."

"Oh, really?" Jester asked, a teasing lilt in his tone. He pointed to where the girls had found themselves front-row seats on the benches. "Just watch."

They leaned over the low fence and peered around the gathering crowd to see. Pepper, Jane, and the the three maids were all bunched together in sisterly support. Their attention was wholly focused on something - a group of young men maybe seven or eight years older than himself - entering the arena. The men were _large,_ _brawny_ and when they passed by the group of girls, _all_ five - Jane included - went completely still.

Again, Gunther wondered at the strangeness of it all. Their expressions ranged from slack-jawed awe to tight-lipped, wide-eyed fright, and for a moment they looked like hares or hill grouse who had spotted a hawk circling above.

Gunther noted Jester had been quite correct, the men did look a bit like Roman gods or gilded Adonises. They drifted about, self-confident, assured. When they stopped to wave at the audience, and Gunther saw Jane jab Pepper in the side - _hard._

Pepper remained motionless, so Jane did it again. She put a pointed elbow into Pepper's ribs - Gunther was well aware of that elbow's ability to capture one's attention - and tugged Pepper down to whisper in her ear. Whatever she said must have galvanized Pepper to action, because she blinked twice and snapped her mouth shut. Finally jarred out of her stupor, Pepper shook her head and _leapt_ from their shared bench. She stepped forward to lean against the fence separating the audience from the field and called out to a very tall, very _muscular_ blond man.

The man sauntered over, chest puffed out, confident.

And then, while the man was watching, Pepper reached down _into_ her bodice and retrieved a colorful scrap of fabric from _between_ her breasts. The very same red and gold piece of fabric Jane had given her, which she then _waved_ at the man.

He gave her a wide smile, and after a short exchange - Pepper gestured to the tittering girls behind her - she helped him tie it on his arm. Task complete, he gave the five girls a wink and a half-bow, and continued on his way.

The man had barely turned when the other girls rushed off their bench to surround Pepper. She fanned herself and then grinned before falling into an overly-dramatic false swoon.

Gunther swiveled his head back to a smirking Jester and tight-lipped Smithy. "What was _that?_ Was that _Jane's_ handkerchief?"

Smithy shook his head. "Before each festival, the girls take turns wearing it for a day, then they give it to their favorite competitor."

That meant - and Gunther's eyes were quite keen - Jane _hadn't_ produced it from her tunic, but from between her own -

He stopped the thought before it got any further, and instead turned his attention back to the group of men.

They had made their way around the area, waving and winking at the audience as they waited for the festivities to commence. "They seem rather arrogant," he said to no one in particular. Gunther did not like the strange feeling which had settled low in his stomach.

Jester laughed again. "Oh, they are. Guaranteed. Thankfully, we will not have to compete with them this year, or next." He pointed to the staging area, where a group of boys their own age were gathered. "Shall we?"

* * *

When they arrived at the staging area - it was hardly more than a tent tucked at the end of the field - Jester pulled off his jacket and set it on his discarded pack. He began a series of stretches and - oh _lord_ \- he was all but covered in scraps of fabric.

Just like the one Pepper had given the brawny competitor.

Favors, from his admirers.

Handkerchiefs, scarves, bits of ribbon, a length of braided leather. There were several on each arm, four or five looped through his belt, and even one - it was bright yellow - tied around his thigh.

How had Gunther not noticed it before?

Gunther gawped at him. "You must be joking. There is no way you have _that_ many favors. It is a joke, right? A means to entertain?"

Jester blinked at him, surprised. "No, but I think you might have an idea there. Maybe next year I shall cover myself head to toe, make the audience laugh." He ran a hand over the favors on his left arm. "These are mine, given to me by my many, many admirers. I _do_ win my favorite events nearly every festival, you know." Jester smiled mischievously. "And even when I lose, what young lady does not love a man who can sing or tease a smile?"

...Gunther didn't know. _He_ certainly didn't know how to sing, or make _anyone_ smile - nevermind a young lady.

Before he could stop himself he asked, "Are any of those from the girls? Pepper and the maids?" He couldn't bring himself to ask if any were from _Jane._ Though why such a thing mattered, he wasn't entirely sure.

"No," Jester shook his head and placed his hand on his heart with a dramatic sigh. "It is an unfortunate truth that our fair maidens only bestow favors on the _men_ in the adult competition. They have no time, no love, for silly, immature boys like _us._ "

Gunther looked at the single bit of fabric around Smithy's arm. "Who is that from?"

Smithy blushed heavily. "I will never tell."

Well.

If Gunther hadn't felt uneasy _already_.

His insecurity was quickly overtaking any previous feelings of bravado he might have had, and those had been decidedly few. "I am not sure I should take part - that is, I spend so much of my time competing with Jane _already…_ "

Jester would have none of it. "My dear squire, you have no reason to be jealous of my numerous fans. This is your first time competing! No doubt you will be showered with all manner of favors and accolades."

"I am not jealous." He couldn't quite keep the pout from his tone.

Jester looked sly. " _Afraid,_ then?"

Did _everyone_ know how to manipulate him into agreeing? "No, no - I -"

Jester cut him off. "You can wear a token of _my_ favor, if you want." He produced _another_ handkerchief from his pocket, and waved it under Gunther's nose.

It was not as delicate or as colorful as Jester's other favors. The handkerchief was a rough-edged no-color with obvious stains. It looked well-used, tattered, and was thin, as though it had been washed many, many times. Gunther was absolutely certain it was Jester's _actual_ handkerchief.

There was no way - _NO WAY -_ he'd accept a pity favor, _especially_ if it was covered in Jester ...drippings.

He grimaced, completely disgusted. "No. No, thank you."

"Your loss." Jester said with a shrug, tucking it away. "Though I know I shall be grateful for the competition in the mangel toss this year."

Jester might not have meant it as a compliment, but it soothed him nonetheless. "Smithy does not win?" Gunther asked, "Being bigger and stronger?"

"Jester is bendy." Smithy answered, cryptically. "But I might take the caber toss this year."

Jester grinned warmly. "I have always had the greatest faith in your abilities, Smithy. Besides," he waggled his eyebrows, "you always win the sheaf toss." He turned back to Gunther. "That's a crowd-pleaser."

Smithy gave him a playful shove. "Do go on."

Once again, Gunther felt as though he were on the outside edges of some inside joke. "I do not understand?"

Jester laughed heartily before answering. "Girls _love_ a boy who can toss them up into the hayloft."

Which, of course, made Smithy turn bright red again.

His discomfort did nothing to alleviate Gunther's own reservations. "It sounds like the winners are predetermined, or at least, the same people win certain events year after year."

Smithy shrugged. "Yes and no. Some festivals we get new competitors like yourself, while others decide not to compete, or age up and compete with the adults. You will do fine."

"I personally never worry about winning," said Jester. "For me, it is all about the performance." He pirouetted, made a sweeping movement with both hands, and smiled at an imagined audience.

Well, Gunther didn't know how to do that, either.

Pirouette _or_ perform.

It must have shown on his face because Jester said, "Oh, do not look so disheartened. Compete in the events you want and sit out the others." Jester checked the knots on his _numerous_ favors. He gave one a sharp tug. "I usually only compete in the mangel toss, the tree climb, and the races. I am not suited to tests of strength or endurance."

"I do not think-" Gunther started, but he was interrupted by the blow of the horn to call the participants forward.

"Too late to back out now, Gunther." Jester took his arm. "Do not worry, it will be fun."

Gunther frowned, completely out of his element. He was not so sure.

* * *

It was, actually.

Fun.

Surprisingly so.

He lost the footrace to Jester, but the two of them ended the race almost half a length ahead of the other participants. Their competition was mostly town boys and a smattering of squires, with an occasional youth from one of the nearby farms.

Gunther thought it unnerving to see just how _fast_ Jester was. He'd had no idea. Sure he'd seen the fool perform, practice his tricks, but he'd never seen him _run._ He wasn't just sprightly or quick, Jester was _fast_.

A side product of his acrobatics Gunther supposed, but _still_.

It had taken nearly everything Gunther had to keep up with him for even a moment - then Jester had easily outstripped him and steadily increased his embarrassingly large lead. And when they'd finished, Jester hadn't seemed even the slightest bit winded, which hardly seemed fair when Gunther's own chest felt like it was going to explode.

Jester took his winner's flag with a grandiose flair, and gave it to the boy who came in dead last; a lad of perhaps twelve - just old enough to compete with the older boys - then immediately rolled into a series of cartwheels, handstands, and other tomfoolery.

The audience _loved_ him and ate up his impromptu performance.

It was no wonder Jester all but fluttered with favors. By the time he was done tying on all his _new_ favors, Gunther was sure a strong gust of wind would be enough to pick him up and just …blow him away.

The next event was the relay. After a moment's deliberation, he and Jester teamed up with the boy who'd placed last in the footrace.

They lost spectacularly.

Gunther went first. He pulled ahead of the other competitors easily and passed the baton to the boy who took off, determined to make a good showing. The boy started out well enough, arms and legs pumping, but made it less than thirty yards before he tripped and landed face-first in the dirt.

The crowd groaned in sympathy while the unfortunate boy sat there stunned, in obvious danger of crying.

Gunther felt his humiliation keenly. How many times had he himself ended up face-first in the dirt, in front of all the other squires? Or the knights? It was an _awful_ feeling, and there were _so_ many people watching - far more than were ever in the practice yard. The boy would probably hear about his clumsiness for months to come.

While the boy didn't _appear_ to be injured, he hadn't moved from his spot.

Hurt or embarrassed, Gunther couldn't just _leave_ him out there.

Decision made, Gunther dashed out, threw the boy over his shoulder and sprinted to where Jester stood, waiting.

Gunther hadn't _intended_ for their team to continue the race when he'd picked the boy up - at best he'd hoped to get him off the field before the lad cried in front of everyone - but when they reached the other side of the field Jester grabbed the baton and took off in a flash of long-limbed speed and colorful frippery.

There was no way - _no way_ \- they could win. The other contestants had already started their third run and were nearing the finish line.

Still, Jester was _fast._

He was _so_ uncannily fast that Gunther found himself reassessing, wondering if just _maybe_ , he could make it after all.

Jester closed the distance, closer, closer -

And then, out of _nowhere_ , he took a comical, entirely _deliberate_ nose-dive, caught himself with his hands, pushed himself up into a handspring and flip, then landed _SPLAT!,_ spread-eagle, face-first in the dirt.

The audience, and Gunther as well, were _stunned_ into silence.

Then Jester sat up, turned to Gunther, and shrugged as if to say, _Well? Where is_ MY _ride?_

Had Jester just _purposefully_ lost the race?

Surely they would have lost anyway.

He wasn't sure _what_ to do.

Gunther looked back at the boy. His face was still pinched in embarrassment, breath uneven. _His_ fall had definitely been an accident but now with Jester's comical fall, perhaps it would seem as though his tumble had been planned from the beginning.

Part of Jester's ...act.

In the field, Jester once again produced his handkerchief - Gunther's unwanted _favor_ \- and waved it daintily at Gunther and called out a lady-like " _Woo-hoo!_ "

The crowd laughed.

Gunther was no performer, but saving face? That he could do.

He jogged over, dutifully hoisted Jester onto his back, and with the cheers of the audience, spurring him on, headed towards the finish line. It wasn't easy; at first he staggered under Jester's weight as the fool was _far_ heavier than he appeared. Still, he managed well enough, and at Jester's _very_ loud " _Giddy-up!"_ galloped to the finish line, much to the audience's delight.

They were _showered_ with favors; scarves, kerchiefs, flowers, a hideous wimple or two - all of which they piled onto the winners of the race and their young partner with good cheer.

* * *

Smithy took third in the caber toss, but won the sheaf toss by a fair margin. Jester had been correct about that as well; as least that it was a crowd pleaser. The women in the bleachers screamed _so_ loudly, Gunther and Jester had needed to clap their hands over their ears, rightly worried they might go deaf.

All three sat out the hammer throw and the stone put; Smithy was strong, but his range of motion was limited due to the repetitive nature of his work. As one they also declined to participate in the pig chase - as much fun as it was to _watch_ , none of them were particularly interested in trying to catch a greased up piglet, or competing afterwards, thusly covered in grease. There was woodchopping, dagger throwing, and the tree climb, which Jester won, much to everyone's - and his own - delight.

Gunther took the flag for archery with hardly any effort at all - which set Jester booing and heckling from the staging area. At first the audience seemed confused - certainly Gunther had been - but then Jester ran out onto the field and started tossing metal rings into the air. Gunther didn't think about it, just took aim and fired - and neatly put his arrows though seven of eight rings.

Gunther thought they were done - how much tomfoolery could Jester rope him into? - but then Jester produced three apples from nowhere, conjuring them from nothing like a wizard.

Apparently his favors held more than the well-wishes of his admirers.

He threw them up in the air, one after another, juggling them high before producing two _more_ apples and adding them to the mix. Juggling five apples was impressive enough, even before Jester commenced to take an exaggerated bite out of each fruit before tossing it high back up into the air.

He gestured to Gunther - and then the race was on. Gunther firing arrow after arrow at the airborne fruit as Jester took a bite out of apple after apple - making them smaller with each toss.

It was a contest of speed, skill, dexterity, and Jester's ability to breathe around a mouthful of apple.

When they were done, his mouth full and his shirt covered in apple, Jester took Gunther's hand and thrust it into the air. The audience _roared_ at their triumph, and as they walked off the field, Gunther counted no less than ten apples pinned to the earth.

"Are you an apple tree _and_ clown?" He asked, once they got back to the tent.

Jester grinned and stuffed the rings - apparently the same ones from the castle's practice yard - back into his pack. "Perhaps. It never hurts to be prepared."

"Har, har. What if I had missed? Shot you through the heart or the eye?"

Jester shrugged and said offhandedly, "When have you ever missed?"

Gunther frowned, but couldn't help but be flattered. It was _very_ difficult not to preen under Jester's matter-of-fact compliment. "And how did you know I would play along?"

"Because we are friends, of course." Jester ran his hands around his be-ribboned self, presumably looking for any forgotten, hidden apples. "You make an excellent assistant, you know. Should you ever decide to give up on becoming a knight, I might have a position for you."

Gunther's frown deepened, making Jester laugh.

"You cannot fool me, Squire Breech. You enjoyed our little impromptu performance." Jester sidled up next to him. "You had _fun._ "

* * *

"This is stupid."

Gunther looked down the line of competitors. The sun was still high, and many of the boys were sporting sunburns. "Why do they do the mangel toss last? When we are all tired from the other events?"

"Exactly because of that, Gunther," said Smithy. "It gives the smaller boys a chance against the larger ones."

"Not that _you_ have a chance, Smithy." Jester jogged in place then bounced on his toes. He was, by all appearances, not at _all_ tired. "I look forward to trouncing you once again."

Smithy plucked at the grass and chewed on the stem. "For the amount of time you spend practicing, I should hope you trounce me."

Gunther wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "Wait," he said disbelievingly, "you _practice_ tossing these things?"

Jester stopped his bouncing. "Of course! Perfect practice prevents poor performance." He perched a boot on the oversized vegetable at his feet. "Besides, I wouldn't want you to _beet_ me."

Smithy groaned. "That's terrible." He spit out his blade of grass. "Lowest form of humor. Completely _mangeled_ that one up."

Both boys swiveled their heads to look at Gunther, clearly expecting him to produce ...something.

"Well, uh…" He searched about, trying to think of a good pun, but instead produced, "He'd need to practice, in case a new competitor… sprouted up?"

Neither boy laughed.

Or cracked smile.

Or so much as twitched an eyebrow.

Jester straightened and popped his back. "We will work on it."

They'd arrived at the last competition to find a haphazard pile of hard, ugly mangels - the giant beets usually fed to the goats and pigs during the winter - and were instructed to pick their own.

The younger boys went for the smaller, lighter roots, while others chose their projectiles based on shape or balance. Jester looked for the roundest mangel and Smithy picked one that was nearly cylindrical. _For easy flight,_ he said.

Gunther had no experience, so without any preference he waited until everyone else was done selecting their own. In the end he settled on a mid-sized root, that split at the end into two. It looked like a very short, very fat man, so he used his knife to carve a face on it.

And if the face happened to resemble his father a litte?

Well, that was neither here nor there.

As for the competition itself, there were no rules regarding technique, except that the competitor could not step over the line during their throw. No rules (and no instruction) allowed for endless and sundry approaches to the inexpert lobbing of said mangels - so the competition was varied and _vastly_ amusing.

Some of the boys threw their mangels overhand, bringing them up to their shoulder and hefting them outwards one-handed, much like the stone put.

None of these went very far. Ten paces, at best.

A few boys tried swinging the heavy vegetables through their legs, back and forth, before they launched them forward with both hands. It was a sound theory, Gunther supposed; these often flew _high,_ but never very far. And since the winner was determined by which competitor could throw their root the _farthest -_

A tosser would have to have either very long legs, very long arms, or both to make such an attempt successful.

By far, the _funniest_ attempts were when the boys grabbed what was left of the beets' leaves to swing them around and around, much like the hammer throw - but these often went hilariously awry. A boy might release too early during their spin, which would send their mangel flying wild. Twice this technique sent the vegetables to the side instead of forward. One found himself disqualified as he stepped over the line during his spin. Another boy stumbled, dizzy, and sent his mangel _backwards_ into the stands.

There was much laughter from the audience.

One such spinning toss _was_ accurately aimed, the mangel released at the perfect point in the boy's spin. It flew high and landed far, far out into the field - the furthest yet. Perhaps the spinners did have the right of it, after all.

In the end there were a great many techniques, none particularly successful.

Mangels, Gunther noted, were not _meant_ to be tossed.

It was no wonder everyone loved this particular game.

Everyone except for Rake.

Yes, Gunther clearly understood Pepper's earlier comment. Rake would _definitely_ see the careless, in-expert lobbing of the giant beets as vegetable abuse.

Soon enough it was Smithy's turn. He moved back a few paces and took a running start, tossing his mangel with a two-handed side-arm swing that was reminiscent of his winning sheath toss. It went high and out, flying further than most - but still landed short of the furthest beet.

Gunther came next. He had _no idea_ how to go about beating Smithy's impressive throw, but he decided to keep it simple.

Truly, his expectations were not high. Any toss which did not brain someone in the audience - or _him_ \- would be a good toss.

He hefted it to his shoulder, moved a ways back, and _sprinted_ towards the line. He got right up to it and _heaved_ \- like when he was hauling barrels for his father - pushing the vegetable out with all his might.

It went up, and out - but still landed well behind Smithy's mangel.

The crowd cheered - pleased with his attempt - but not as loudly as they had for Smithy.

Finally, it was Jester's turn. He'd elected to go last, as was his right as reigning champion, and the audience fell silent when he picked up his mangel.

Gunther felt a tug on his sleeve and turned to find Smithy, sitting, plopped on the ground. _All_ of the competitors were sitting, presumably to give the audience a clear line of sight. Gunther sank down as well.

Jester, even out of his uniform, was ever the performer.

He walked five or so paces up to the line and set his mangel on the ground then went through a series of comical stretches. They were uncomfortable-looking and vaguely upsetting; a set of contortions which were _clearly_ for the audience's sake, as there was _no way_ such movements did anything to improve Jester's - for lack of a better word - bendiness. Some of them were downright… _unnatural._

The crowd laughed at his antics, but fell silent as he approached his mangel.

With careful showmanship he picked it up, pivoted on his heel, and counted out four steps.

"Smithy, what is he-"

" _Shhh,"_ hushed Smithy. "Watch."

Jester reoriented himself to the field. He pulled his head to one side, then another, popping the bones in his neck. He took a deep breath, his shoulders rose and fell, and then without any further preamble -

\- he darted forward. Jester took one step, then two, dove forward and touched his mangel to the ground as if to do a front handspring, flipped end over end, and released.

It was brilliant. Awe-inspiring. Sarding exciting as hell.

Jester used the speed of his rotation and the weight of his body to send the mangel whipping, flying, _speeding_ through the air.

To Gunther, he looked very much like the spin and release of one of the sling catapults.

Perhaps that was where he had gotten the idea. Jester was nothing if not observant.

The crowd _roared_ its approval.

He and Smithy were on their feet cheering, jumping all over Jester, clapping him on his back, celebrating his victory even before his mangel hit the ground.

Jester was _clearly_ the winner - there was no need to watch it land.

* * *

The sun was low on the horizon when they headed back to the castle.

Having completed their own games, they'd stayed to watch the adults compete. While the feats of strength and speed _had_ been impressive, none had been so exciting, so _massively_ entertaining as their own contests.

The three boys were halfway home - trading jokes, boasts, and compliments - when the girls caught up to their small party, talking amongst themselves.

Jester captured a blushing Bronwyn's hand and bowed over it, dipping low. "The sun rises and sets, the moon follows suit, but even the stars are eventually chased away, shamed into the dim by the shining radiance of your beauty."

Bronwyn froze, then erupted into delighted, embarrassed tittlers.

Pepper inserted herself between them and slapped his hand away. "Flatterer. I think perhaps you are a bit full of yourself, after today."

He gave her a grin and winked at the still-giggling maid. "Does that mean you witnessed our glorious triumphs, then? Were they not the miraculous results of strength, skill, and showmanship?"

Jane rolled her eyes. "How could we miss them, with all of your hopping about?"

Still riding the excitement of their shared victories, Gunther asked, "And my archery, was it not impressive?"

"Yes, Gunther," Jane said, not unkindly, "we are all duly impressed."

Gunther channeled his inner Jester, and pushed his chest out. "Have we earned a token of your favor then, a sign of your undying devotion?"

She gave him her sweetest smile and shook her head. "Sorry, but no. I only give favors for archers who hit _all_ of their targets. Not seven out of eight rings."

So she _had_ been watching. It made him feel -

"Terribly high standards you have, Jane." Jester quipped, breaking through Gunther's thoughts. "How will we ever achieve such lofty goals?"

Jane laughed and waved him off.

Gunther smiled at Pepper. "And you? Are you, like the perfectionist Jane here, so cruel to deny us a favor when it is rightly deserved?"

"Alas," Pepper replied, sadly. Her eyes went wide and her lip stuck out in an exaggerated pout. "We only had the one favor to give. But here, I think you have each earned a kiss."

Before he could react, Pepper put a hand on his shoulder, rose up on her toes, and planted a peck on his cheek. Her lips were warm, soft, and she smelled like honey.

The other girls quickly followed suit - Jane included - kissing Gunther, Jester, and Smithy's cheeks in turn.

Once finished, they skittered off, giggling behind their hands.

It was… it was…

Gunther seemed quite unable to describe _what_ it was at the moment.

Even Jester appeared to be shocked speechless; he stood stock still, all jokes and songs chased away by the girls' sweet, feminine favor.

"Gunther?" Smithy sounded a little breathless. Dazed.

"Yeah?" Gunther did too.

"You will be joining us next festival, right?"

 _Absolutely._

"You would have to _beet_ me away with a stick."


	17. Honor

Jane dipped the rag in the bowl of water and wrung it out. It would need to be changed soon, but Gunther suspected that should she leave, she would not be back for the rest of the evening.

He would be on his own.

Gunther considered himself lucky she was here at all.

She folded the small towel in half, then half again, and pressed it against the cut on his jaw where the blood still flowed freely. The action was gentle enough, but it hurt. He sucked in an involuntary sharp breath.

Jane frowned at the sound, but did not remove the towel or offer any sort of apology.

She remained silent on the matter of his discomfort, choosing instead to glare at him in tight-lipped disapproval. She hadn't said _anything_ \- as a matter of fact - since she'd dragged him, one arm around his neck and one firmly planted in his hair, back to the castle.

Once he'd regained his composure, he'd tried to apologise. Tried to explain his actions. Offer some sort of justification which would soothe her fury and garner a response.

It had not worked.

Jane had been immovable in her anger.

When he had failed to draw her out, he'd tried everything in his limited arsenal - which admittedly, was not much. Two jokes and three disparaging comments - two about his battered appearance and one about her own freckled nose - but she had yet to say anything.

Gunther wasn't sure which was worse: the pain of his broken nose or her silent, echoing disapproval.

His nose would heal eventually, and - presumably - she'd forgive him once the bruises on his face faded.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

He was pretty sure, anyway.

Except… she _was_ rather gifted at holding a grudge.

He opened his mouth to try again, but she pushed harder against the cut. A silent warning that - in case he was _completely_ ignorant to the grim set of her jaw - perhaps he should just say quiet for now.

He kept quiet.

Better safe than sorry.

After another minute, she peeked under the to see if the bleeding had stopped. Her brows pinched together; a little furrow formed between them and darkened her expression. Still, what she saw must have satisfied her, because she pulled it away.

She dipped the rag again, rinsed out the blood, wrung it dry, and set about scrubbing the cut above his right eye. She was _careful_ , but not terribly _gentle_. A clear and painful rebuke for his poor decisions.

"You are going to get yourself killed one of these days," she said, startling him. Her voice was quiet, muted, and her words wouldn't carry beyond the garden table, but he still jumped as though she'd shouted.

It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.

"I -" he began. His thoughts were still hazy, muddled. Slowed by the last vestiges of adrenaline. Or maybe it was that second blow to the head which had left him scrambling for some sort of explanation.

She didn't want to hear it.

"Shut up."

His mouth snapped closed with an audible clack.

Jane sighed, and moved on to the scratches on his neck. She used one hand to tilt his head sideways. The slight motion made the world spin lazily on a pitched axis.

"While I appreciate your… _fervor_ in this matter, your assistance is hardly necessary."

"Jane, I-"

" _Shut. Up._ "

Gunther shut up.

"Butting into other people's conversations, charging in to defend my supposed 'honor'." She scoffed. " _Honor_." A look of disgust flashed across her delicate features. She wrung out the cloth and dabbed at his broken lip. "It is not just _unnecessary,_ Gunther. It is _unwanted._ "

Gunther pulled away to stare at the broken skin of his knuckles. They ached, throbbed. He hadn't realized he'd been clenching his fists. "But they - that is - what he said was not just _crude,_ Jane. It was untrue."

He forced himself to relax his hands.

Jane followed his line of sight, and made a little disapproving sound in the back of her throat. She stopped her ministrations and exchanged rag for a new one.

"Alcohol."

Gunther retrieved the bottle from the table and handed it to her. She poured a liberal amount on the rag and without any preamble, slapped it against the cut on his forehead. Pain flared anew - _holy hell that hurt -_ but he kept silent save for a little hiss. He imagined she would be less than sympathetic to any complaints.

"Hold this here." She commanded, and gave the rag a little push.

Gunther raised one hand to hold rag, while Jane turned her attentions to his knuckles. She dipped her rag and took the hand still in his lap. With another beleaguered sigh she scrubbed at the raw skin of his knuckles.

He tried again. "He likened you to a mad camp follower, Jane. I could not let it pass."

Jane opened her mouth to say something, but clearly thought better of it.

Perhaps it was not in his best interest to anger her further. At least, not right at this moment.

Perhaps tomorrow. Or next week.

Still - Gunther was not the most socially adept of people - and before he could think it through asked, "What?"

Jane shook her head. A quick and final _NO_ \- though if it's to herself or him he did not know. He didn't think she was going to offer any sort of answer but then she said, "I hesitate to point out that not so long ago, you did the same. Not just _thought_ , but said. For _years_ , Gunther."

He wanted to look away, duck his head in shame, or - if she hadn't been holding very firmly to his hand - run from the room to hide somewhere very dark and very small. He felt sick. "I know."

They sat in silence for a while.

"Is that why you do it then?" She asked. "These fights?" She dropped his hand and tapped on the one still holding the rag to his forehead. "Switch."

Gunther changed hands. Their position made holding the rag to his forehead awkward.

Jane took his free hand resumed her scrubbing.

"Is it some lingering, misplaced guilt? Because believe me, Gunther, you do not need to." She raised a hand to still his mouth, stilling whatever argument - whatever _excuse_ \- he had been about to produce. "I forgave you long ago, and even before that I _understood._ I am fully aware how… unnatural I am to other people." She paused. "To _men._ " Then she shook her head and laughed, a dark, mirthless little sound. "To women as well, I suppose. There is a reason most of the friends I do have are male."

He retrieved his hand and caught hers in it. He gave it a warm squeeze. "You are not unnatural, Jane."

"Perhaps not, but when you throw yourself into fights on my behalf, you only make them right - reinforce the idea that I am unworthy of the sword, and that despite my assertions otherwise, I am some weak-willed maiden who needs a man to defend my honor. When you do these things, it robs me of the opportunity to defend _myself._ Something," she was matter-of-fact, "I am completely capable of doing."

She pulled down the hand holding the rag to his forehead. Her eyes searched his, green almost swallowed by the black of her iries in the half-light. "Do you understand? I would much rather be _unnatural_ than in need of rescuing."

He could have been honest. Told her no, because he _didn't._ He didn't understand. Not really.

"I understand." He took the rag from her hand and set it next to the bowl. "Though I cannot promise I will be able to avoid all such fights in the future."

She frowned again, argument at the ready.

"But I will _try,_ Jane." He was resigned.

She stood up and gathered the dirtied rags, bowl of pink-tinged water, and bottle of alcohol. She wouldn't meet his eyes.

Without looking back, Jane walked towards the kitchen. There were no lights on, this late. "I suppose that will have to do."


	18. Pride

Gunther dipped the rag in the bowl of water and wrung it out. It would need to be changed soon, but Gunther suspected that if he got up to fetch new water, he would not be back for the rest of the evening.

She would be on her own.

Jane should consider herself lucky he was here at all.

Not that he'd actually leave her to her stupid, selfish, foolish devices - but _still._

Gunther wiped at the abrasion beneath her rapidly-swelling eye. It wasn't bleeding any more, but still wept a steady stream of clear fluid. It would scab over eventually; the mark would probably leave a coin-sized scar on the curve of her cheekbone.

It seemed like a rather extreme measure to rid herself of a few freckles, especially given the sheer number which adorned her pale - now bruised - skin.

Not that he said so. He was _quite_ done trying to get through to her - it was not as if she would listen, anyway. He _had_ tried earlier, when his temper was still high and he'd needed to throw her bodily over his shoulder - kicking and screaming like a thrice-damned toddler - to haul her away from the tavern brawl which _she_ had started.

Once he'd settled her on the edge of the garden table, Gunther had made one one disparaging comment, offered four reasonable alternatives to fighting, and made three outright _demands_ Jane be smarter when picking her opponents - but he had yet to get a response.

No, she was far too proud of herself.

He wasn't sure which was worse: the fear and worry he'd felt when she'd _flung_ herself at the group of large, hairy brawlers and him honor-bound not to intervene, or the guilt he'd felt when he'd first assessed her myriad wounds.

What had she been thinking, to take on so many men at once? So many _drunken_ men?

It was a rhetorical question, of course. An obvious sign his irritation - his _frustration_ \- was near its peak. Only madmen talked to themselves, and surely Gunther was barking, howling mad for honoring Jane's wishes and just… letting her throw herself into a brawl?

I didn't matter. He knew what she'd say if she had deigned to respond to his repeated queries - what blustering bullshit excuse she'd muster - or at least some ridiculous variation of it.

 _The bigger they come, the harder they fall._

It made him nauseous.

It made him angry. Furious. _Livid._

Helpless.

Because Jane, being Jane _bloody hell_ Turnkey, had not just _jumped_ at the chance to participate in a tavern brawl, she'd been the one to sarding _start_ it.

Again.

And he, Sir Idiot Squire Breech, had done nothing to stop her.

 _Again._

He wet the towel again and folded it in half, then half again. He pressed it against the tumid flesh around her eye. Even if she managed to keep it covered with a cool rag for the rest of the evening, it would probably be swollen shut in the morning.

"Hold this here." He croaked, and tapped the rag above the swelling. He hated the way his voice broke. Maybe she'd think he was still angry.

She reached up to hold the rag while he retrieved another.

He was, though. Angry. At the three men who'd participated in Jane's little show of independence, even after it had been _clear_ he was not going to spring to her defence. Angry at Jane for allowing the comments to get under her skin, even though it wasn't the tenth, the hundreth, the _thousandth_ time someone had made such callous, stupid, and markedly untrue observations about her person. Angry at _himself_ for not ignoring Jane's wishes and leaping into the fray with her.

 _Gods_ how he had wanted take down that rat-faced bastard and unman the lot of them.

Although - truth be told - Jane had done a fair to middling job of that on her own.

But still! He hadn't even _tried._

Hadn't tried to diffuse the situation with one of his more _winning_ jokes. Hadn't tried to redirect the conversation. Hadn't tried to soothe chafed tempers with a calming word or another round of ale.

… hadn't tried to _remove_ Jane from the tavern when it became obvious - _bloody obvious -_ that she wasn't just _bristling_ under their insults, but coiling about herself with intense and dangerous fury. A snake, waiting for the right time to strike.

He reached up and tilted her head to one side, then another. There was a neat little row of scratches, clearly the marks of some ruffian's disgusting, dirty nails, which started mid-neck and trailed down to her collarbone. He dipped the new rag and set about scrubbing them clean. Another attempt to distract himself from his own alternating guilt and worry. Gunther was _careful_ , and as gentle as he could be, but it still had to hurt.

Jane stared silently - arm still holding the rag to her eye stuck out at an awkward angle and a slight smile tugging at the corner of her lips - up at the clouded sky.

"You are going to get yourself killed on of these days." It wasn't a question. It was a real and honest fear from his heart. They were _squires_ , training to be _knights._ Their intended occupation was plenty dangerous enough - and more so for Jane herself. On the battlefield she would be a target twice over: as a perceived easy conquest, and as a ...conquest.

There was no need - _NO NEED -_ for Jane to engage in such sarding ridiculous fights over something so stupid as her _honor_.

That's not to say she couldn't hold her own. No. Jane did well enough. _Very_ well if he was honest. She was fast, skilled, and was two steps ahead of any opponent. And merciless.

Sweet lord, didn't he know from first-hand experience? Jane was _merciless._

But skill and speed and vicious determination didn't mean she could win _every_ battle on her own.

That's what she had him for.

They _were_ partners, weren't they?

Gunther rinsed the rag and scrubbed the scratches a second time. He patted the area dry and applied a generous, heaping portion of Pepper's salve. It was sticky, vaguely gritty, and stank to high heaven, and she absolutely deserved to suffer through an evening of its cloying stench.

If she was lucky, the marks would fade enough to go unnoticed under the riot of her hair and the collar of her shirt.

"Alcohol."

Jane retrieved the little bottle from the table and handed it to him. He poured a liberal amount on the rag, and took her hand in his. He murmured an apology, and dabbed at the broken skin of her knuckles. It had to hurt, but Jane herself remained silent on the matter of her discomfort.

Once finished, he set the rag aside and flexed each finger in turn, gently testing their range of movement. None of the knuckles appeared to be broken, but he wouldn't be able to tell for sure until the swelling went down. He wrapped her hand with a clean bandage and secured it with a neat little knot.

Gunther let go of her hand and gestured to the one still holding the rag to her forehead. "Switch."

"Your mother is going to be furious with you." He washed away the dried blood that had settled between her fingers. "Me as well. I will be fortunate if I live to see the end of the week."

Jane opened her mouth to argue, or offer some glib commentary on her mother's incessant meddling.

He didn't want to hear it. "Do not."

Her mouth snapped closed with an audible clack.

"You may be immune to your mother's wrath, but I am not. The Lady in Waiting is quite capable of making my life difficult, should she so choose." Gunther rinsed the rag and resumed his scrubbing. He glanced up to see her grinning from behind the dripping rag. There was blood in her mouth and her teeth were stained red. She was so unbelievably, so _ridiculously_ proud of herself, whatever desire he may have had to make light of the situation was blown completely away.

"It seems, Jane, that you sometimes forget that there are people who _care_ about you. Your safety, your well being, your happiness. I very much doubt your mother would think highly of such a childish display of pride, _or_ my lack of action. We are _partners._ We are meant to be responsible for one another." Gunther set the rag aside and pulled her hand down in an attempt to capture her full attention.

He sighed. "And while I fully appreciate your fervor in this matter, and support your right to stand up for yourself - for your supposed 'honor' or whatever asinine excuse you have come up with -" he wrapped her hand and tied a second, matching knot. "- it is not just _unwanted_ , Jane. It is _unnecessary._ "

Her face fell.

Good. Maybe she was listening.

Gunther stood up tossed the pink-tinged water into the bushes. He put the dirty rags into the bowl and pocketed the bottle of alcohol. Without looking back, he started to the kitchen. It was dark, but the hearth was probably still hot enough to burn the rags. "You have nothing to prove, Jane. At least not to me."


	19. Intrusive

"Well of COURSE I do, Gunther. The other knights do it, too. Surely you have seen them? Especially in the summer." Jane hung her shield on the waiting rack. It clacked dully against as she settled it into place. "It is _far_ too much work to haul water up to my room, and I am a bit too old to be bathing by the kitchen hearth with the children."

Gunther blinked.

Then a second time, as though the mere act of opening and closing his eyes would transport him out of this strange new world he'd descended into and back to familiar, less changeable lands.

Just when he'd thought he knew everything about his partner, thought he'd be able to anticipate her moods, her foibles, her motivations - Jane had to go and surprise him. Except this time, she'd thrown him so completely off kilter, he wasn't sure he'd _ever_ recover.

He tried again, hoping he'd misunderstood. "You...you bathe in the lake with the knights?"

Jane's eyes went wide and her brows disappeared into the mess of her hair.

She looked appalled. _Appalled._ "No, Gunther. Not _with_ the knights. Of course not. That would hardly be proper, or godly, or well ... _anything_."

Gunther breathed a sigh of relief. A long, silent, _deep_ sigh of relief.

Still, he was shocked.

Well and truly astounded by such cavalier behavior. She may be Jane - Jane Turnkey of the drunken brawl and the terrible, terrible Fool's Day pranks - but at the end of the day she was still a _lady._ Or so he had thought.

"So then… you… when _do_ you…?"

"After everyone has gone to bed, of course. Late at night, so I am not in danger of crossing anyone's path. If Dragon is around, he will take me to the cove on the far side of the lake -" she shrugged, not at all uncomfortable with the turn of their conversation, "but most of the time I just swim a bit closer to home."

The words came out before he could stop himself, "What… where?" He immediately regretted the question, and he hoped it didn't sound as… odd to her as it had to his own ears.

Jane frowned. "I think, perhaps, that is _none_ of your business." She pushed a wayward curl out of her eyes and glared at him.

 _Hells._ It had.

Still, this was not entirely his fault. It wasn't as if _he'd_ asked her about such a delicate topic. "You, Jane - if I may remind you, as it seems you have already forgotten - are the one who brought it up!"

Jane snorted. "Only because you _stink,_ Gunther Breech. It was a… _polite_ … means of suggesting you take advantage of the lake's close proximity."

What was she on about? "Excuse me?"

"If you need me to be more direct, then I shall." Jane leaned forward and waved her hand in front of her face. "I think you should consider a swim in the immediate future, as you are in dire need of a bath yourself."

Gunther scoffed at her theatrics.

She ran a hand through her matted hair, and winced as her fingers caught a snarl. "Do as you will." She freed her hand and set off for her tower.

He waited until she was out of sight before raising one arm to take a tentative sniff.

 _Whooo._

She had not been wrong.

Indeed, Jane had been _quite_ correct in her assessment. It was hard to say just _what_ he smelled like, beyond the day's sweat and old leather in need of a wash, but there was the odor of something unpleasant - unpleasant and somehow _green -_ emanating from his person.

Deciding to take her advice, Gunther stuffed a fresh set of clothes into his pack and took himself down to the lakeshore.

Only belatedly did it occur to him that he really _should_ have pressed her for more information on just when and where she was most likely to be found, naked in the water… so as to assiduously avoid any _accidental_ confrontations, of course.

* * *

Gunther stripped off his shirt and ran a hand through his sticky, sweaty-crusted hair. It had been _miserably_ hot under the helmet and armor, which explained his... enhanced odor. He stripped off his shirt and tossed it in a messy pile with his boots and sword.

A noise caught his attention. A splash. A breathy sigh.

He was not alone.

Gunther took a tentative step forward, searching for the sound, and then finding it, ducked behind a thick patch of cattails.

In the water, her hair a crimson halo of floating tendrils, was Jane.

Naked.

 _Jane was naked._

And he, Gunther Breech, could not look away.

She was glorious. Sublime. An angel who had descended from heaven and somehow become trapped in the moonlight.

He knew it was wrong to spy. To stare at her so boldly when they had _just_ had their damnably uncomfortable conversation, but he was transfixed. If he'd been a sailor, and she his siren, he'd have already drowned himself.

After thirty heartbeats - or maybe forty, or a _hundred_ \- he couldn't tell, his heart was pounding so fast - reason reasserted itself.

She was _Jane_. He was _Gunther_. They were partners. And sometimes - despite all their progress and mutual camaraderie - still enemies.

This was ...wrong.

Gunther could not, _would not_ stare at her from the bushes like some… _hedonistic_ _voyeur_. He would go. Right now. Take a step, pivot, and push himself back towards the castle and the normalcy of their relationship.

Forget this had ever happened.

Gunther had just turned to leave, had taken that first unsteady step homeward, when she called out to him.

"Gunther," A lilting, feminine whisper. "will you not join me? Gunther?"

He was again reminded of a siren. She was seductress, calling him back.

He tried to ignore her pull, but he couldn't. He was helpless to disobey… but then, why would he even want to?

He padded across the sand to where the waves met the shore, stripping off the remaining pieces of his clothing as he went. They left a trail in the sand, forgotten weapons, abandoned bits of armor, shucked-off garments, discarded inhibitions.

The water was cold and made him shiver, but then Jane was there, pressing against him. She ran her hands down his chest, his neck, up into his hair, leaving little trails of fire wherever she touched him. She hooked one leg around his waist, then the other, locked her wrists behind his neck, tugged him down. She tasted like honey and smoke and something he couldn't quite define - but it was addictive, whatever it was.

Their mouths met again, and again. He could hardly think, hardly breathe for all the sweet, intoxicating little sounds she made.

She pulled back to settle herself more firmly against him, then began to move, her breath hot on his ear.

It was so much, so soon, the thought of stopping her never even crossed his mind.

With each flex, every arch of her back, she cried out, whining his name.

Gunther,

Gunther,

 _Gunther,_

 _GUNTHER, GUNTHER!_

"GUNTHER! OCH! BOY! TIME TO GET UP!"

Gunther snapped his eyes open, then slammed them instantly shut again. Hanging over him _not_ the beauteous face of the siren Jane. No. It was the scarred, pockmarked, _worried_ mug of Sir Ivon. Spittle flew and stuck in Sir Ivon's beard as he shook him awake.

Gunther let loose a squeak of horror and lurched up to a sitting position. His forehead collided with his mentor's nose, with a dull _thud_.

Sir Ivon yelped and jumped backwards, hands cupped over a nose that was far redder than normal.

Still caught somewhere between wakefulness and dream, Gunther shuddered. He pulled his sweaty blankets into his lap, wanting nothing more than to hide beneath them.

Maybe forever.

Sir Ivon rubbed his bulbous nose, his voice muffled. "I dunne ken what you were dreaming about, boy, but you were making noises something awful. Woke up the other knights, ye did." It wasn't a scold, despite his near-injury. Sir Ivon was _amused._

Gunther gave his head a shake and rubbed blearily at his eyes.

The man was _smirking_ at his discomfort.

Just what _sort_ of sounds had he been making? Had it been only noises, or had he been talking? What exactly had he said? Had he called out anyone's… name?

Heat prickled up the back of his neck.

If his mentor was red-faced, surely Gunther was two shades darker. "I am sorry, Sir Ivon. It will not happen again."

Sir Ivon slapped him on the shoulder, laughing. "Somehow I doubt that, boy. Ye forget, I was once a strapping young laddie meself."

... _what?_

Sir Ivon made a fist, and thrust it into the air. There were chuckles from around the room; apparently Gunther hadn't chased out _all_ of his comrades with his… dreaming.

If it were possible to actually perish from embarrassment, he would be taking his last choked gulps of air right now. As it was, Gunther was in real danger of emptying the contents of his stomach into his lap.

 _Could this be ANY worse?_

"Och, dunna worry my boy. We've all been there. Should ye move into the castle full time, we'll get ye your own room. In the meantime," Sir Ivon gestured vaguely at Gunther's person, "Perhaps you should… ahem… _Sharpen_ your sword before you join us for drills."

 _Sweet, bloody, sarding hell._

* * *

That should have been it. One… uncouth dream, one embarrassing moment. That ought to have been the end of it.

He was determined to forget his wildly inappropriate conversation with Jane, to scrub the dream from his waking mind, and to bury the humiliation of his _waking_ in the deep, dark recesses of his subconscious.

Done. No more.

For the sake of his sanity, that _had_ to be all there was.

Unfortunately, it was not.

Somehow over the next few days, thoughts of Jane - nay, thoughts of _naked_ _Jane -_ crept into his waking moments.

 _A VERY GREAT MANY_ of his waking moments.

First there was that incident at the docks, while Gunther was helping his father's workers load the ships with barrels of Kipperinia's salted fish. He had just taken up his fourth load and was on his way down for the fifth when a movement at the periphery of his vision caught his attention. He ignored it at first, thinking it was probably just a fish or a seal that had wandered too close to the shore, but when it flashed again he looked over and saw -

 _Jane, naked in the water._

\- nothing. Just a trick of the light on a low wave. Gunther shook his head and grabbed another box. It was difficult, but he managed to keep his eyes at his feet for the rest of the morning.

Unfortunately, it wasn't very long before it happened again. That very afternoon he was sparring with one of the older nights - _not Jane, thankfully_ \- when the sunlight from his opponent's helmet flashed into his eyes, temporarily -

 _Reminding him of Jane's pale skin, luminescent in the moonlight._

\- blinding him and throwing him off balance. The knight took advantage of Gunther's disorientation and slapped him hard with the flat of his blade. It stung - stole his breath - and would likely leave a red mark under his shirt. A _painful_ physical reminder to keep his focus on the task at hand and not on… other things.

Gunther fervently hoped it would be successful.

That night he lay on his cot - unable to find a comfortable position thanks to the bruise on his side - and stared at the rough timbers above him. He was tired, exhausted really, but fought against the pull of sleep. Sleep meant dreams, and dreams meant… well.

As it was, he did not dream - or if he did, he did not remember - which was a relief, but the lack of slumber had left him tired, irritable, completely unable to deal with the sudden, unexpected intrusions upon his thoughts.

Pepper washing apples at the table. _Jane, the tops of her breasts barely visible as they floated in the cool water._

The washerwomen, wringing sudsy water from linens before snapping them open in the wind. _Jane, standing in the shallows, squeezing the water from her sodden hair, tiny rivulets running down her exposed stomach._

The younger squires, waxing the shields and maintaining the tack. _Jane running a cloth over her smooth skin._

It wouldn't stop.

He _needed_ it to stop.

Please let it stop.

Jane deserved better. A partner who was honorable, respectful. Not some… lecherous cretin.

How could he look at her, meet her eyes, seeing what he'd seen? Which was ridiculous, absolutely absurd. He had seen _nothing!_ It had been a DREAM! A figment of his overactive and _perverted_ imagination.

It hadn't been real. It wasn't _real._

Unfortunately for him, Jane herself was _very_ much real.

He couldn't avoid her forever - no, that would be impossible - but he could certainly _try_ … right?

* * *

Gunther managed to evade her for nearly a day and a half.

A rather successful one-sided game of hide-and-seek, if he did say so himself.

But of course Jane, being the huntress she was, had intuited that _something_ was wrong. So naturally, being entirely unable to leave well enough alone, she'd used her considerable skills to overcome his attempts at avoidance, and had tracked him down with disappointing ease.

Which was how he'd ended up here, trapped against a castle wall, Jane far closer to his… person... than was comfortable.

Thankfully, Jane remained _blissfully_ ignorant to the direction of his thoughts. They'd been given an assignment by Sir Theodore, which in itself wasn't that unusual, but for whatever reason, the task had ruffled her feathers.

She in high dudgeon, animated in her frustration. Her cheeks were flushed, temper flared. It was too distracting. The way she'd plant a hand on her hip, or rake her fingers through her curls, or chew on her lip, or cross her arms under her breasts, pushing them up...

He tried to pay attention. Really he did.

Honestly. But she was right there… _right there_ and he could not keep himself focused on whatever it was she was trying to convey. Gunther glanced wildly about for an exit, some means to make an escape. It wasn't as if she had _actually_ trapped him against the wall. He'd have to take two steps forward _and_ reach out to touch her, but for all his wits and witticisms, he could not find a way to excuse himself.

"Afterwards Sir Theodore would like us to escort the caravan down to town…"

\- _her hands were strong, yet still delicate, soft -_

"Because while he does not _expect_ any trouble, it is better safe than sorry considering their cargo…"

\- _she gathered the wet curls off her nape and pulled them to the side. Her hand trailed down the side of her neck, then lower. The long length of skin exposed was pale and inviting -_

"Which is silly and I cannot help but feel like it is _busy_ work…"

\- _Jane's smile was bold when she caught him staring. She laughed. A low, seductive sound. She reached out for him -_

"...though I suppose I should just be grateful…"

\- _her fingers tangled in his hair and her nails scored his scalp. He shivered as she dragged her hands down -_

"..since we will be on our own, rather than supervised by some fat old knight or another…"

\- _she caressed the lines of his chest, his stomach, his hips -_

"...finally taking us seriously…"

\- _she stepped forward to press herself fully against him. She was so warm, it almost burned -_

"...because honestly, what would they know about the price of tea in Kippernia..."

\- _his hands shook, but she moaned under his touch. Her skin was like silk under the rough pads of his calloused fingers-_

"...and it is very clear you are not paying attention to _anything_ I say…"

\- _her tongue traced patterns on the scruff of his jaw. He gripped her tightly as they sank down into the water -_

"Have I told you how lovely you look in Jester's hat…"

\- _her arms wound around his neck, her legs locked around his waist, her mouth on his -_

"...nothing but a Gunther-sized nappy…"

\- _the world disappeared -_

"What IS your problem today? _First_ I think you are avoiding me, and now I find you completely out of it, are you sick or just reverting back to a slug?…"

\- _Their breaths mingled, and he swallowed her cries -_

"...unbelievable…"

 _\- Gunther, Gunther, GUNTHER, GUNTHER! -_

"GUNTHER!" Jane's face snapped into sudden focus. "What is your problem?"

"YOU SWIM ALONE NAKED EVERY NIGHT!"

All noise in the courtyard stopped. Even Smithy's hammer stopped its ringing against the anvil.

 _Holy hell, had he really just said that OUT LOUD?!_

 _YELLED IT?_

Gunther could feel the stares of the people around them, their disapproval burning holes into his head.

Jane cocked her head to the side, a quizzical crease in her brow. "Is that is what is bothering you?" She seemed confused, concerned about his distress. Eager to reassure him, she said, "Not to worry, Gunther. I am not always alone. Sometimes Pepper washes my back."


	20. Snow Day

"Well if you had not left your gloves at the castle, you would not be suffering right now."

"I am not _suffering_ , Gunther. I am just complaining. There is a difference." Jane stopped and shrugged off her pack. "It is cold and wet, and my shirt sleeves are not quite long enough to pull over my fingers. And the weather is making my my hair act like-" she waved her hands, pale with the cold, about her head. "Like this!"

Gunther suppressed a smile. She was quite right; her hair _had_ gone rather wild with the humidity. He thought there might be the remains of a braid under the bushy mass somewhere, but truly, it was hard to tell. So many of her unruly curls had escaped its confines, Gunther thought she needn't have bothered attempting to tame them in the first place.

"And here I thought you said I had the market on complaining." Gunther removed his own pack, stretching to relieve the tension which had built in his shoulders.

"Well, Gunther, you cannot be best at everything, all of the time."

Gunther laughed, leaning down to fiddle with his boot. The thong he had wrapped around the top had slipped, letting more snow _in_ than it was keeping _out._ "So you admit I am better than you, all of the time?"

Suddenly, a pair of _freezing, ice-cold_ hands snaked up into his hair and under his collar. Before he could stop himself, _\- who would be able to, really?-_ Gunther let out an _embarrassingly_ high-pitched squeal, scrunched up his shoulders, and dropped face-first into the snow.

"Oh, that is MUCH better." She kept her hands on his neck and followed him down, pressing him deeper into the drift. She gripped the back of his neck tighter, then abruptly released him, rolling her hands to press the _back_ of her fingers against his skin. "I admit nothing, except perhaps that your scream is more girlish than mine."

Gunther rolled to his left and kicked out with his feet. The snow crunched beneath him as he twisted.

Jane saw it coming, but bent over as she was, could not step out of the way quickly enough. Her legs flew out from under her, and she plopped down into the snow with a surprised squeak of her own.

Grinning, Gunther grabbed her ankle and dragged her to him as she flailed for purchase. He took a _huge_ handful fresh of snow and rubbed it into her hair and face.

She giggled and thrashed between shrieks of " _Stop! Gunther! Oh it is so cold! Stop!"_

Gunther scooped a second handful - it was the perfect amount of stickiness for his purpose - and shoved up and under her scarf before - _Holy Sarding Shite! -_ Jane snuck a handful of snow into his jerkin.

The surprise of the cold blooming against his shirt was _so,_ _so_ much worse than the feeling of her icy hands on his neck. The handful pressed against his chest, held there by the tight leather of his jerkin, and immediately began melting through his shirt, dripping down to his stomach.

Gunther had pushed himself up in an attempt to shake it out - when he was pelted _one!two!three!four!_ by a barrage of snowballs - or rather, a flurry of loosely scooped snow. They weren't packed at all and exploded on impact, flying everywhere. They stuck to his cloak, his skin, his hair.

Jane giggled and snorted while he wiped the snow from his… everything.

"Do you yield, squire Gunther? Do you admit that I am better?" She stood, hands fisted on her hips.

 _Oh,_ she was so _self-satisfied_.

He _almost_ said yes. Anything for a reprieve long enough to fish the pressing lump _in_ his jerkin _out._ If he did not, the wet dribbles were going to eventually find their way into his underwear and leave him with a terrible case of soggybottom. _COLD. ICY. Soggy. Bottom._

He'd opened his mouth to submit when she continued with "...yield and admit _defeat?"_

Her _smugness._

Was she sneakier? Yes. More flexible? For sure. Better? Maybe.

But admit _actual_ defeat?

Phbth. _NEVER._

With a battle cry worthy of Sir Ivon, Gunther charged at his foe, scooping up loose handfuls as he went, lobbing them at her as she tried to escape. His aim was true - it had always been - and she had no hope to avoid his repeated hits. They splattered her retreating form with merciless frozen fury.

Jane dashed into the the forest - _harder to dodge there, you ninny! -_ shrieking with mock terror. She stopped in a small patch of young trees, saplings really, barely over their heads, presumably to gather some snow for more ammunition. It was a poor choice. She didn't have room to move and he'd be on her to wreak his frozen revenge in moments.

Gunther was almost on top of her, launching snowball after snowball, when she planted one leg on the ground _whirled_ around to kick the the thin trunks of the trees behind her.

 _Maggots._

She was _definitely_ sneakier.

Unable to arrest his momentum in time, to stop himself before he fell completely in her well-laid trap, Gunther slid to a halt - right where she wanted him. He was nearly knocked to the ground as the _entire_ load of snow above him came crashing down. As it was, the weight staggered him, pushing him to his knees.

The snow covered his shoulders, his head, and pinned his arms to his sides, trapping him most effectively. He was buried almost up to his hips with light, sticky snow.

If he hadn't been wet _before_ , he certainly was now.

"You… you… _ahaha_ , oh you look like.. .oh I cannot even _describe_ …" she shook with mirth, holding her sides, filling the forest with her bright laughter.

Gunther narrowed his eyes, sending her his most _scathing_ look. "I think, Jane Turnkey, you are in for it now."

And so it went, them chasing each other, one winning, then the other, until they were very well and very _thoroughly_ soaked. Twice Gunther had managed to catch hold of Jane and shove a _generous_ handful of snow down her back. He'd have considered it a victory, worthy of later bragging rights, but Jane was _far_ craftier in her attacks. He suspected she'd _let_ him catch her the second time, just so she could twist around and shove another handful of snow into his jerkin.

It was, however, Jane that eventually called a halt to her activities. She panted hard, leaning on her knees, "...yield."

"I am sorry, what was that?" Gunther threw another snowball, but he was tired and it landed short.

"I said," she swallowed another gulp of air, "I yield. You win."

Gunther took a cautious step forward. Maybe he should make _her_ admit defeat. "This feels like one of your tricks." He raised another snowball in warning.

"No trick," Jane stood up, cupping her hands to her mouth and blowing warm air into them. "You win. You are the victor…" a sly smile spread across her lips. "...for today." Jane rubbed her reddened hands on her arms, then stuck them into her armpits.

Gunther dropped his snowball and stepped forward. He retrieved her hand and turned it over in his own, inspecting where her knuckles had cracked or been scraped raw by the ice. "I had forgotten you did not have your gloves." He released her hand, frowning. "I am sorry, Jane."

She gave him a reassuring smile and stuck her hand back into her armpit. "It is alright, Gunther. It was worth it to hear you squeal like the princess."

Gunther's frown deepened. "You are _bleeding,_ Jane."

"And you look like you have wet your kickers, so I think we are _quite_ even."

Gunther made a noise of displeasure and rolled his eyes. "Yes, I am sure I will never live it down." Gunther tugged off his gloves and held them out to Jane. "Shall we get back to the castle before we catch our death? As it is we have wasted the afternoon."

She looked at him, the gloves, back at him. Her expression was quizzical.

Gunther waved them under her nose. "Take them."

Reluctantly, she took them and tugged them on. The gloves were comically large, and came up past her elbows.

Without warning, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. It pressed the wet fabric of his shirt against his skin in a fresh shock of biting cold. If he hadn't been so surprised by the gesture, he would have squealed again.

She stepped back, her face was bright red. "Thank you."

Wet shirt or no, Gunther suddenly felt overwarm. "Nonsense, I should have given them to you when you realized you'd left yours at the castle."

"No, Gunther, thank you for today. It was fun." She walked over to where her pack still lay on the road. She shrugged it on and started back towards the castle. "Though I do appreciate the gloves as well."


End file.
